


As a Matter of Fact

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demons, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, I.O.U., M/M, Partita, Reichenbach Theory, Romance, Sherlock is a true genius, The Final Problem, UST, computer daemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson did not believe in fortune tellers. The psychic he’d been dragged to in his younger days might’ve been right about ‘a serious injury occurring in a foreign land’ and in advising him to take a ‘greater interest in computers and IT’. But <i>not once</i> had she mentioned that in his <i>forties</i> he would fall head over heels in love with his <i>male</i> flatmate. A little warning would’ve been nice.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes only believed in empirical data and facts. He’d assumed those would be enough to persuade John Watson that his fake suicide had been necessary. But <i>not once</i> had it crossed his brilliant mind that the one thing that would ultimately convince John would have nothing to do with facts. A little warning would’ve changed absolutely nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Patron Saint of Patience

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to Lariope for alpha reading, betaing, and hand holding. I would be lost without her!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~***~~~
> 
> This story has been translated in Chinese by the lovely ad50302742.  
> Link is here: http://www.mtslash.net/thread-231487-1-1.html
> 
> It was also translated in Russian by the kind RatL and can be found right here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/5889156

~~~***~~~

John peered at the contents of his suitcase one last time before closing the lid and pulling the side zipper firmly shut. The thing was full despite the fact that John had not really paid that much attention as to what he had placed in there--he’d grabbed a few shirts, a random pile of pullovers, trousers, and a handful of socks and pants from his top drawer--until it had felt like there was enough stuff for a few days. He’d then gathered whatever toiletries were scattered on the surface of his bathroom counter and stuffed them in his travel kit and crammed that in his suitcase too. 

He figured that whatever he had forgotten, he could always purchase once he settled in his hotel in Paris. 

John dragged his suitcase from his loft bedroom, down the narrow spiral stairs, and placed it by his front door. He was ridiculously early. Really, he could’ve taken the time to pack more carefully--his taxi cab wasn’t scheduled to pick him up for another four hours, so he had plenty of time to re-open the darn thing and see if he could organize things a bit better. 

But it was an understatement to say that John Watson couldn’t care less about the state of his travel bag, or what he would be wearing in seven hours when he would finally get to lay eyes on his no-longer-dead-flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, how utterly amazing it was that his best friend was alive.

Jesus, the man had caused him two of the greatest shocks of his life—dying right before his very own eyes and then coming back to life a few months later. It was a wonder his hair wasn’t completely white by now.

Sherlock Holmes, John mused, should come with a warning label like the ones they had on cigarette packages or roller coaster signs. Things like _Highly addictive or Caution: raises blood pressure._

Of course, Sherlock’s label would need a few additional warnings; _Caution: may highjack your life! Keep within arm’s reach: has tendency to wander off. Beware: May suddenly expire and spontaneously resurrect again._

Oh, the clever sod had played his cards right--as per usual. Yes--very clever, indeed--Sherlock had given John five full months to get used to the idea that he was alive and that he had cruelly deceived him, that he had gone off on his own again and had taken care of things his own way. Had Sherlock appeared in the flesh instead of camouflaged in a letter from Henry Fishguard, John would’ve surely fainted or punched him senseless. 

The day he’d received the letter was forever crystallized in his mind.

It had been nearly five months into John’s bereavement when he’d received the missive, mixed in with the bills and adverts as if it weren’t an earthquake in an envelope.

John remembered the tremors that had rattled through him once he’d been able to convince himself that the letter was indeed from a live Sherlock.

Oh, it had been hard to believe. He’d tried in vain to see who else could’ve written it. Christ! Who else even knew about Henry Fishguard? (Henry Fishguard who had _not committed suicide_ ).

At the time, it had felt necessary to nip any false hope in the bud before it had time to grow roots and choke any progress he’d made in the grieving process (which, admittedly, hadn’t been that significant up to that point). 

John had spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out who the mystery sender was. The missive had been cleverly disguised has an apology letter from the CEO of a company called Illusions and Wonderment, and despite its brevity, it had been filled with codes and details only he and Sherlock had known about.

John let out a small laugh remembering one of the clever hints Sherlock had hidden in there.  
_Please contact my secretary, Charlotte Umqra, at your earliest convenience. If inconvenient, contact her as soon as possible regardless._

 _U.m.q.r.a._ \-- Lord God, he’d certainly not shared his embarrassing Morse code mistake with anyone!

So, after re-reading the words, after re-reading between the lines, he’d allowed his gut feelings to float to the surface (he’d almost thrown up) and had to conclude that the letter was indeed from his best friend. That Sherlock was alive.

Christ, his English teacher had preached about the power of words, but never had he imagined that eleven sentences could drastically change his internal biochemistry instantly. It had felt as if his skeleton had the consistency of unset jelly. Thank God he’d been sitting at the time.

He'd gone through an entire spectrum of feelings like someone dangling from some kind of emotional pendulum. He’d oscillated back and forth between joy and disbelief, delight and bitterness, happiness and rage, longing and incredulity--until he’d become nauseated and could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet.

In the end, John had decided that he could not afford to slap his ‘one more miracle’ in the face. He’d asked--no, begged-- _don’t be dead_... he just hadn’t specified a time frame on it, that’s all. 

That night, in his bed, he’d laughed (and cried a bit too) into his pillow until he’d fallen asleep with the letter clutched in his hand--with the last emotion being happiness and awe at the sheer outrageousness of what Sherlock Holmes had pulled off. 

Even now, mere hours away from being reunited with Sherlock, he still had no idea how Sherlock had managed a damn stunt like that. Christ, the man was brilliant!

Brilliantly cruel.

It was just as well that he’d found out Sherlock was alive via a damn letter, John thought. It had spared him the shock of the betrayal face to face. He couldn’t imagine what it would’ve felt like to have a live Sherlock appear in front of him without being prepared. As it was now, he had been given enough time to process everything and get used to the idea. 

In fact, John had now spent equal amount _grieving_ to an equal amount _knowing_.

Knowing had not been easy these past five months--he did not enjoy deceiving people who were still looking out for him--but it was certainly easier than the suffocating pain of grief. 

John was fully aware that anyone struggling with grief would give anything to have the opportunity to rewind death back to flesh and bones and be given the chance to share all the things they thought they’d never say face to face. 

But the truth was, John was _nervous_.

You’d think it would be easy--walking into a bookstore, greeting Sherlock, hugging the live bastard (yes, hugging, because every time John played out their reunion in his mind, he always pictured himself holding Sherlock close and tight, probably to ensure he was indeed alive before him) and then sitting Sherlock down for a few hours of solid explanation.

But that was the crux of it, John mused. _The Explanation_.

What if it was crap? What if the bottom line was the same old thing as the cabbie and the pool--Sherlock going off on his own to play the game; consciously excluding him?

As much as he was grateful for having Sherlock back, the ‘one more miracle’ aspect of the entire event had faded, and every single time John thought about Sherlock’s deception, he felt a current of resentment swirl within him and lodge itself in his gut like a solid thing. He had always managed to contain it, but now it felt like it had created a snug nest of bitterness inside him, and he wasn’t able to get rid of it no matter how much he wanted it to.

What would he do if there was no good reason for any of this? What if he had to accept that in the end it was who Sherlock was--a human being so completely clueless about human emotions that he would willingly commit suicide in front of his own best friend to win a bloody game?

See, contrary to popular belief, John had limits (but why the fuck did Sherlock feel the need to test every single one of them?) and he had to decide now--before he saw Sherlock--what he would do if he wasn’t satisfied with Sherlock’s explanation. And the bottom line was that he would need to end their friendship. Not because his pride had been wounded (though he couldn’t deny feeling bouts of humiliation at being fooled) and it wasn’t about revenge either (no matter how much it would be satisfying to hurt Sherlock).

It was about _trust._

If there was no good reason for any of this, there was no proof that Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t do it again at some point. And that was something John could never go through again no matter how much he cared about his best friend.

But the confusing thing was, John still believed he knew Sherlock--one hundred percent. With the same deep certainty that he’d known Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, he knew Sherlock wasn’t a machine either. There _had_ to be a reason. He must have been threatened by Moriarty up there; but at the same time, he must’ve known well in advance in order to effectively fake his death? Why suicide? And more importantly, why had he been excluded right from the very start?

Those were the questions he’d been struggling with the past five months. The questions which had grooved the little nest in the lining of his stomach. He wished he could’ve been reunited with Sherlock sooner, before the groove had got even bigger, but he understood that things hadn’t been quite safe enough yet to do so and that Sherlock had wanted his name completely cleared before he returned home.

Well, at least he’d put his foot down and set the terms of their reunion to his liking. He’d changed the dates Sherlock had proposed (it so happened there was a two day conference on diabetes he could attend and claim the travels as professional expenses). He’d even switched the city Sherlock had suggested (from Lausanne to Paris) and had demanded a different location for the meeting. 

Sherlock had agreed to every single one of his conditions, which made him feel better. Like Sherlock understood... In a way, Sherlock letting him set the parameters of the reunion was like some sort of apology. It was as if Sherlock was acknowledging that he couldn’t take John--and his forgiveness--for granted. That John was in on making some of the important decisions from now on. 

John sighed, wishing he had something captivating enough to hold his attention while he waited nervously for the time to pass. What he needed was a stiff drink. But before he could mentally list all the reasons why it would be idiotic to be reunited with Sherlock while intoxicated, there was a firm knock at the door.

 _This_ he didn’t need, John thought as he peered through the peep hole and saw Mycroft Holmes’s elongated face peering back at him. The distorted image accentuated the length of his nose and seemed to stretch his lips into a sly smile. John thought he looked like a red fox on the hunt. Which, in fact, wasn’t a bad way to describe Mycroft Holmes on any given day--with or without the distortion.

John removed the latch and opened the door resignedly. Mycroft stepped in, scanned the living room, and placed his umbrella against John’s suitcase.

“Hello, John. I realize that you must be apprehensive and somewhat nervous about your... reunion with my brother.”

“Yes, well thank you for the visit, Mycroft. I was rather hoping for some condescending advice before I go.” 

Mycroft gave him a tight smile that made him look like someone had crushed his big toe. John thought of doing just that to see if he could match the two expressions. 

“No, not advice, something much more useful in this case,” Mycroft said as he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a square case containing a CD disc in it. 

John purposefully ignored the item in Mycroft’s hand.

“Whatever this is, Mycroft, I don’t think it’s very important. I’ll be face to face with Sherlock in less than eight hours... see: suitcase all packed, ready to go... and I don’t think listening to whatever you’ve got there will be useful.” 

“It is _Sherlock_ who wants you to view it prior to your meeting. Believe it or not, I’m just trying to be helpful.”

Mycroft looked as helpful as a fox offering to go check up on the henhouse. 

John extended his hand, and Mycroft placed the disc in it firmly.

“So, what’s this, then? Ten steps to forgiveness?” 

Mycroft smirked, eyes amused, sly and entertained, and John was actually surprised by how accurate all of his previous fox analogies were, but then Mycroft’s expression turned serious and evasive again.

“Dr Watson--trust me when I say this--my brother is sorry about certain components of past events, but do not expect him to repent like a Catholic at confession. Do, however, give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You make it sound as if I would still prefer Sherlock six feet under than alive and semi-aware that you do not fake your suicide in front of your friend.”

“Good, good--I certainly hope those sentiments remain intact after viewing this footage.”

“What is on this?”

“A seventeen minute video.”

John tilted his head impatiently. “And what is it about?”

“Secret camera footage.”

“Of?”

“Two hundred and twenty-one B.”

John was used to Mycroft being evasive and secretive with pertinent information, but this time Mycroft sounded uncharacteristically unsure--dragging this out unnecessarily. This conversation almost felt like a game of twenty questions, and John had no urge to play along. 

His patience was wearing thin. 

“Out with it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed and then exhaled his explanation quickly. “You will witness my brother and his arch-enemy--his real one, namely James Moriarty--having tea together in your old flat, soon after the trial.” 

“Tea with Moriarty?” John knew that Moriarty had ‘come after Sherlock’ after the trial, but he didn’t know tea had been involved. He didn’t know Moriarty had been in their flat for almost twenty minutes. The swirl of bitterness did a loop around his stomach and dug in a bit deeper.

“Sherlock thought it would be best if you didn’t have too much time to _dwell_ on it... and I agreed.”

John felt like every cell in his body was stretching and pulling in a war to keep everything under control. How the hell could these two men still be withholding information after everything he’d been through?

It wasn’t just that he’d been kept in the dark that angered him—but it was also the lack of trust—hadn’t he goddamned well proven himself trustworthy? What right did either of them have to keep things from him?

He was out of patience. With both men. And he had the patience of a saint, he’d been told. In fact, Lestrade had jokingly called him the patron Saint of the Holmes Brothers. 

Well, he didn’t feel like he was going to be canonized anytime soon. In fact, he was going to wring the necks of both conniving deceitful Holmes brothers. Even Saint-Francis, he mused, who loved all living things, would lose his cool after spending any brief amount of time in their presence. If John killed them, he would be forgiven at the pearly gates, he was sure. 

“John, you are no doubt looking for a satisfactory explanation from Sherlock. Look at this as the first step.”

 _Fuck off, Mycroft,_ John did not say. He knew that losing his cool with Mycroft would serve no good purpose and that he had to save his energy for later. For when he’d see Sherlock. It wouldn’t do to still be reeling at the elder Holmes brother while trying to process Sherlock’s explanation.

Also, the truth was, John knew that deep down it wasn’t Mycroft he wished to spar with. It was just that being pissed at Mycroft was less confusing than being angry with someone he would be so fucking glad to see.

John literally swallowed the built up frustration and said calmly, “I appreciate you taking the time from your busy schedule to run _errands_ for Sherlock.” He then grabbed the disc and slammed the door in Mycroft’s face.

“Goodbye, John, and good luck,” Mycroft said from the hallway. “Give my brother a chance by at least reading between the lines of what he says.” 

Christ, as if he weren’t the one who knew how to read Sherlock--as if he weren’t the one who had been _loyal_ to Sherlock all along. Of course, he’d read between the lines. That’s all he ever did with Sherlock anyway. He was good--much better than bloody Mycroft--at translating Sherlock. 

_Let it go, John._

He heard Mycroft’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway and let out a sigh. 

John looked at the CD in his hands. “Well, there you go,” he thought. “Now you have something to pass the time until the damn cab gets here.”

John took the disk and put it in his DVD player apprehensively. 

~~~***~~~


	2. Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is reunited with John but finds it difficult to apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to my wonderful friend Lariope for the beta and support. I couldn't do this without her!

~~~****~~~

 

Sherlock scanned the periphery of his small Parisian flat one last time before setting off to meet John Watson in person. It was important that John not realize that he had been living here for the past ten months. Obviously.

Sherlock was pretty confident he had erased any clues of his presence, but it wouldn’t hurt to double check. He had disposed of his utility bills (convenient: he’d sent them to Mycroft to take care of) and had packed all his clothes in a small suitcase he had purchased the day before--receipt burned last night in the park along with his last cigarette. Not that John was overly observant and would deduce that Sherlock had been here all along from the size of the bar of soap in the shower or the amount of clothing he had in his closet, but still--he could not afford to underestimate his friend.

John had felt the need to set the parameters for their reunion and thought he was calling the shots. It was hardly Sherlock’s fault that he had deduced this well in advance and had in fact counted on it when he had invited John Watson to meet him in Lausanne--knowing full well that John would refuse and choose Paris instead (a simple extrapolation--John liked to deduct his travels as business expenses and the 38th diabetes symposium was in Paris close to the dates he had proposed). 

Sherlock didn’t know why it mattered who chose the meeting coordinates, but he knew he had to give this to John. 

Mycroft had warned him that his reunion with John was indeed a delicate situation.

“You realize, dear brother, that your... _friendship_ with doctor Watson hinges not only on the transparency of your explanation but also on its validity. Remember to listen to his feelings (Mycroft had paused at that point, two seconds, as if to give him time to fully absorb the word) and do not forget to apologize.” 

But the fact was: Sherlock wasn’t sorry. He’d done what was necessary. (And he’d gotten rid of Moriarty--and no one had thanked him for that yet.)

Mycroft had continued. “Of course, you are not remorseful about what you did, but that is not what you will be apologizing for. You let the man think he couldn’t talk you out of committing suicide... and then proceeded to fall to your death right in front of his eyes. There is a certain cruelty to it that even you must recognize, Sherlock. There is a high probability (Sherlock had mentally calculated 55%) that while John might understand your reasons, he might not be convinced that your cost/benefit analysis was worth it. And whatever odds you’ve just computed, add 10%”.

So, 65% chance that John would find it difficult to forgive him. He could work with that. He’d convinced less malleable people with slimmer odds than that. Plus, John was like an efficient solvent; he’d be able to easily peel away the layers and get to what mattered underneath.

 

***

 

One hour later, as Sherlock waited, hidden behind a metal door of a storage closet in the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore--probably the most ridiculous spot for a reunion--he had to remind himself of these odds and not be too annoyed at John. 

Sherlock had predicted John’s need to set the parameters for their meeting--right down to the dates, city and hotel, but he’d never imagined John would choose a popular landmark as the place for their reunion. But he couldn’t dwell on that--he had to focus on what he would say to John when they conferred to analyze all the variables that had added up to his decision to stage his death in that particular way. 

What irked him the most was the fact that--once again--Mycroft had been proven correct about sentiments--certainly not an advantage. Sentiments, like fog, had distorted John’s perception of the events at Bart’s ten months ago. Frankly, it was hardly Sherlock’s fault that John had let them cloud his common sense. Sherlock had told him that it was a magic trick (and by definition an illusory feat). You’d think that would have been an obvious giveaway.

Also, hadn’t John thought it was a little bit out of character for him not to correct his mistake when he’d claimed that he’d known everything about his _sister?_ (He hadn’t. He’d assumed Harry was John’s brother.) For God’s sake, if he’d looked John up to impress him, he’d have said the right gender at least. Wasn’t that enough of a clue that something was amiss? Apparently not. 

Sherlock had needed for John to buy the suicide _in the moment,_ but he felt he had left enough clever hints for John to figure out that his suicide wasn’t real afterwards. 

For example: having made John stand at a precise spot; the bike that had come out of nowhere on a deserted street; amount of blood and viscosity (hadn’t they gone over that on the Janus Car case?); the squash ball in the lab (had John thought he’d had an early morning match scheduled with Molly?); the fact that his pupils had been fixed but _not_ dilated; no obvious broken limbs; the discrepancy in his clothing; Good Lord, he could go on and on about all the seeds of doubt he thought he’d planted—but John wasn’t him, was he? 

No--John hadn’t looked back in hindsight because of sentiments. (Sentiments apparently sublimating years of emergency work experience. How peculiar.) 

John had suffered and grieved for him needlessly. He could’ve spared himself the misery with a bit more critical thinking skill and a bit less emotional response (Though Mycroft had a valid point; John had probably been encouraged by others--especially his therapist-- not to look for clues and miracles, and to seek ‘closure’.)

Sherlock was troubled but not sorry--yet he’d have to apologize. And wasn’t that a repetitive pattern of his life? Having to feel remorseful for things he sincerely thought were (mostly) not his fault at all. 

Well, there was nothing he could do except hope that John could override his emotions and use common sense this time to make a valid conclusion about the situation. 

Sherlock looked at the time on his watch--eight more minutes before John arrived. The thought that he would see John again after ten months apart made him feel... good. He’d missed him.

But if he were brutally honest with himself (and there was no reason not to be) Sherlock was apprehensive about seeing John again. 

What if he had miscalculated again? He had made a significant mistake by not taking into account the fact that emotions were important variables and could affect results in unexpected ways. He had expected John to question the validity of his suicide but his friend had been too upset to even doubt what he had witnessed. 

Sherlock had not expected John to be so affected by his death.

And the bottom line was, he knew John was furious with him--they’d hardly communicated after the Fishguard letter—and Sherlock found he did not especially like how he felt when his friend was angry with him (He’d discovered just how much he disliked it in Baskerville.)

The thing was, he didn’t want to lose John. Everything he had done, _everything,_ had been to ensure that John lived and that things remained the same. That nothing changed. That they continue to be friends and work and live together. Not only because John made the most excellent tea and was so very helpful in buffering awkward situations for him at the Yard--but because he made him feel more in control. John made it easier for him not to focus on the inconsistencies of normal people. 

In fact, John was like a sort of emotional GPS for Sherlock. With John around, it was easier to navigate the spectrum of what was acceptable and what was not, socially (Not that he had particularly cared about taking the wrong approach with people before John, but that was beside the point.)

The question was, would John be able to reset all coordinates at zero, or would he conclude that Sherlock wasn’t worth the effort? But how many times could he ask John to start over? Now would be a good time with James Moriarty out of the way.

See, he’d just wanted to get rid of Moriarty so they could focus on solving crime together (less brilliant crimes, mind you). For once, he had not played the game for the thrill--he had played to win and to get rid of the opposition once and for all. 

Would John see that? 

His thoughts were re-directed back to the present when the door to the bookstore opened and John stepped through at exactly 19h00. 

_John!_ (Haircut yesterday, close shave, favourite shirt, ironed, but forgot the collar, new trousers, date loafers, at least five cups of coffee since this morning, sat in middle seat on aeroplane, and should have used the loo before meeting but did not want to be late.)

From his hiding spot, Sherlock acknowledged that he found it easier (always easier) to make deductions than to analyze why he was filled with something he would have to describe as _longing._ He’d felt it before in John’s presence. (He’d never experienced true friendship before so he’d been surprised at the intensity of the sentiment and stored it away for future reference if need be.) 

Sherlock took one step forward and made himself visible for John to spot him behind the storage door. (He was certain John would recognize him despite the different hair and glasses.)

Their eyes met, and Sherlock ignored his sudden desire to reach out to him.

_Remember, he's probably angry._

John was looking at him with equal parts relief (happy to see me in person) and exasperation (perhaps because he has realized what a ridiculous meeting spot this is?)

_Not likely; it’s you he’s exasperated with._

They stared at each other in silence. Past experience had shown that he’d be better off letting the offended party speak first. Mother had told him often enough that he tended to make things worse whenever he attempted to explain himself.

He just needed to keep it simple. Fact: John was here for some answers. Conclusion: Just wait until John asked a question and then answer it. Simple. 

Sherlock tried to recite the citric acid cycle waiting for John to finally say something but couldn’t seem to be able to focus while John was looking at him like that (blue irises glinting with sadness).

“Sherlock,” said John with a cracked voice. 

Not a question. But Sherlock nodded his head yes in answer anyway.

John moved closer, and Sherlock was able to make another set of deductions (new deodorant, more grey hair, recovered from a cold two days ago).

Interestingly enough (but not interesting in a good way since it made the muscles in his stomach clench), John displayed an expression Sherlock wasn’t familiar with--not a face he’d ever associated with John. Was it resignation? (Definition of resignation: has given up.) 

An hour ago, including the last forty seconds that had just elapsed, Sherlock had been satisfied with the calculated odds--even if not tilted in his favour--that he could present John with a ‘satisfactory’ explanation and therefore ensure the continuation of their partnership ( _friendship_ ).

He’d been anxious to get the messy bits over with--like a muddy car getting a quick wash down at the carwash (Apply pressure, lather, rinse, shiny, carry on as before). 

But now that he had his John Watson in front of him--earnest and guarded, happy yet sad (resigned), a 35% chance of success wasn’t nearly good enough. He needed 100%. He just couldn’t... without John, what was the point? 

Sherlock was speared with a yearning for John’s not-resigned face. The face which expressed enthrallment and awe at simple deductions. The one that demonstrated affection for him despite chronic entropy, faulty empathy, and his questionable social skills. John _liked_ him. And when he was with John, he liked himself too. 

Sherlock wanted to change the expression on John’s face. Even the face that was angry at him was better than this. Perhaps the surveillance disc at the last minute had been too much? Perhaps Mycroft was right--witnessing his suicide had been too much?

Was _he_ too much? 

John wasn’t emitting any clear clues as to what he should do next. 

A while back, Mycroft had advised him to picture the scene and attempt to reverse their roles (theoretical empathy lesson he had called it). 

Now, out of nowhere, Sherlock was finally able to put theory into practice. He had a quick flash of John free falling to the ground. And suddenly gravitational force became something other than mass × acceleration. 

“John.” His voice cracking too.

Despite the traffic in the bookstore, John was acting like they were the only ones there. His eyes had softened, and he was now smiling at him. A warm sensation seemed to fill Sherlock inside--like a cup of tea after a two hour stakeout in the rain--and he let himself smile back. 

Suddenly, he felt that it would not be difficult to apologize.

 _I’m sorry, John._

Sherlock knew he had to say it out loud. He moved towards John, but somehow the words seemed to become tangled with other things he wanted to say--neurons carrying impulses simultaneously crisscrossing and short circuiting pathways to his vocal chords due to so many options: 

_John, I won. Plan A failed, but I still won._  
 _You realize this is a very idiotic meeting spot._  
 _Sorry you didn’t catch any of my clues._  
 _I’m sorry, John._  
 _I did it all for you._  
 _You were in danger._  
 _Didn’t you know I would outwit Moriarty?_  
 _Don’t you know me 100%?_  
 _Why are you so upset?_  
 _I gave you clues to put together afterwards._  
 _I chose you, John. I chose you. Will you see that?_  
 _You’re the most important thing._  
 _I had to do it this way._  
 _I had no choice._  
 _I would do it again._  
 _**I’m not sorry at all.** _

And just like that, he’d talked himself out of apologizing.

What came out instead of remorseful words was, “Are you okay?” as he reached to pat John on the shoulder. John leaned in slightly and their grand reunion resulted in an awkward A-shaped hug. 

“You know you have to tell me why, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was pleased that John did not ask “how” first. Smart. _Clever John!_

“Yes.”

“Then we need to talk,” said John.

“Is that why you chose such a private venue to meet?” Sherlock inquired. 

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock thought it was a good sign—like things were getting back to normal between them.

“I chose the most photographed bookstore in the world just to annoy you.”

“Clearly.”

Sherlock ignored the peripheral deduction inflow occurring around him in a multitude of languages. He needed to leave the premises as soon as possible and stay focused.

Someone (David, a nervous Australian tourist about to propose to his girlfriend) held the door open for them as they exited the bookstore. 

Out on the cobble street, Sherlock and John stood staring at each other--still not completely at ease. 

“Shall we go to a pub--er bistro, I should say?” inquired John after a few tense seconds had gone by. John, as per usual, was making an effort. 

John. So transparent. To him. Not just the obvious--a good person, brave, tenacious, a compassionate physician, a witty sense of humour... but the inner John. Nerves of steel, malleable but of the most stubborn substance. Looking to forgive him. Wants badly to be presented with a solid explanation. Suddenly, it became clear what he needed to do in order to ensure forgiveness. The truth. He would tell him the truth and go against Mycroft’s advice. Everything including the fact that he had _not_ risked his life to save him--he’d risked something even bigger. (He could only hope John would see it his way.)

“No--let’s go to my flat instead. More private.”

“You have a _flat_?” 

Sherlock knew that he could still go with his original plan and pretend he had just moved in today. But the truth seemed to be correct angle to approach this now. That’s how they would reach equilibrium again (probably).

“Sherlock, do you seriously have a flat?”

“I understand that normal people find it preferable to living in the street,” said Sherlock.

He felt he was making an effort. John didn’t seem to appreciate the fact. He was squinting at Sherlock, and it was obvious that he was connecting the (distasteful) dots in his mind. Perhaps just parts of the truth would have been wiser?

“You’ve been here all along, haven’t you? Lausanne--it was. You knew I would choose Paris. This is what you had initially planned, isn’t?”

 _Say something positive_. 

“Well done, John. Good deduction.”

John demeanor completely changed; his shoulders straightened, and his face lost all signs of emotion. This was worse than resignation. This was indifference.

His flat was approximately fourteen kilometers away—twenty-four minutes travelling time by metro—that’s how long he had to reverse indifference back to annoyance (that he could work with). 

He had to figure out what to say before they got to his front door. He’d miscalculated again by telling the truth. Annoying. 

John was walking briskly in front of him. The dynamics felt all wrong. 

Sherlock searched frantically for words--witty words that would make John turn around and smile at him. But none were to be found. 

Finally, John stopped and looked back. “You should lead the way; I have no idea where you live.” 

John’s shoulders were sagged. _No, wrong!_

Sherlock wanted badly to touch him there and physically reassure him that there was no valid reason to demonstrate such bleakness yet—that he had nice empirical data to present to him. Evidence that would fix everything.

But the truth of the matter was, the fact that he’d been in Paris all along was likely the least bothersome truth he had to divulge to John. Consequently, on their way to his empty flat, he said nothing as he walked next to John.

 

~~~***~~~


	3. The IOU Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive hugs to my wonderful friend and beta, Lariope. Thank you so much for your constant encouragement and help.

John had no recollection of how they’d gotten to Sherlock’s flat. All he knew is that they’d taken the Metro--Paris’s underground transport system--and they’d walked quietly and quickly, taking what seemed to be an abnormal amount of alternating right and left turns on narrow cobblestone streets until they’d reached a royal blue door with the number thirteen attached to it with brass digits.

Along the way, John had been lost in thoughts--reflecting on how _nothing_ had really gone the way he had expected, and how it had felt to see Sherlock alive and breathing right in front of his eyes. 

The store had been full of clients, but John had spotted Sherlock immediately despite the fact that his curls were all gone and he was wearing glasses. It was his body language, he realized, that had given him away--the way he’d stood straight, hands behind his back and his chin tilted up in the air slightly. John had seen him that way countless times, and it felt like his very posture was imprinted in his mind. It hadn’t mattered that he’d been wearing clothes he didn’t associate with Sherlock--a short indigo blue wool jacket with large buttons and straps instead of a zipper (probably a French thing)--he’d recognized him right away. 

What had hit him when he’d first laid his eyes on Sherlock was just _how much_ he’d missed his friend. There had been a weird sensation deep in his belly similar to the millisecond feeling of weightlessness when an elevator sets in motion. It was strange because he’d never associated those particular physical symptoms with missing someone. Must have been because of their unique circumstances--everyone must feel like gravity was playing tricks with their guts once they were face to face with the formerly dead. 

John had wanted to touch Sherlock, just liked he had imagined, but had only managed to utter his name. Sherlock had stared at him for the longest time—like there was an enormous thing he wanted to say but the words were trapped in his head. 

John had become resigned to the fact that he might as well expect the worst if he was to go by their reunion itself--Sherlock’s distance between them plus the additional deception (Christ! He’d been in Paris all along!) were enough to signal to John that he’d be better off shunting his feelings altogether.

Hearing Sherlock unlocking his front door brought John back to the present. 

John watched as his friend opened the door, stepped in, and de-activated the alarm with quick, jabbing fingers. It still felt surreal to see him alive and in action as if no time had passed--no death had occurred. 

John halted at the threshold, drew a deep breath, and followed Sherlock inside.

At first glance, the flat seemed very small and modern: a kitchen with fire engine red appliances, followed by a small hallway with three closed doors. 

John was about to inquire about which one led to the loo when Sherlock turned slowly towards him, staring with piercing, yet sad, eyes.

The earlier distance was completely gone. His friend’s lips were moving but no sound was coming out. From the odd, sorrowful expression on his face, John had half expected him to claim to be a fraud again.

Then Sherlock took a step forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I _am_ sorry, John,” Sherlock said sounding slightly surprised, like he’d just come to that conclusion on his way here. 

“Sorry for what, Sherlock?” John had no idea what had caused the change in Sherlock. For all he knew, Sherlock was sorry there were no morgues opened in Paris at this time of the day. 

“Sorry for not being sorry—for not being remorseful enough. I know exactly what you’re looking for--not just a valid explanation, but a sign that I care about what you went through. I do, John. Care.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Also, I’ve missed you.”

John felt something shift inside--not forgiveness or understanding, but a small sign that things could perhaps be mended between them if each of them made the effort to be more transparent. 

And without thinking about it consciously, John pulled Sherlock to him tightly just like he’d imagined doing. 

Sherlock sighed, wrapped his arms around John, and pulled him flush against his chest in response. John held him fast while his ear pressed above Sherlock’s beating heart. _Jesus, Sherlock._ He swallowed hard and pinched his eyes closed, fighting the stinging behind his eyelids.

It was comforting how strongly Sherlock was holding him, even though it felt like his grip might crack his ribs. But that didn’t matter, what was important was that they’d shared a real hug this time--one that not only affirmed life--but one that said that their friendship was worth saving.

“You still need to explain,” John said roughly as he held on.

After a moment, Sherlock stepped back, removed the fake glasses, and pointed to a door straight ahead. “The bathroom.” 

John laughed to himself. Sherlock could still deduce with accuracy, though he wasn’t about to inquire how he’d figured that one out. When he returned from the loo, Sherlock was waiting for him in the kitchen. 

“I have nothing to offer you. No tea. Just water. Tap water... in a clean glass.”

Had the circumstances been different, John would’ve teased Sherlock about trying to be a good host, but his friend looked too frazzled at the moment. In fact, he reminded John of that first time Sherlock had shown him 221B--he’d been all over the place, talking over him, all the while trying to tidy up. 

“Tap water is fine.”

“Good. It is potable, even though there is a small chlorine residue present--and traces of fluorine, of course. Magnesium was negligible--” 

“Thanks, sounds lovely. Refreshing, in fact,” interrupted John before Sherlock’s list grew. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He grabbed a glass and poured water into it and then turned and indicated to John to sit in the rather uncomfortable looking red metal chair at the kitchen table. 

“Yes, the sofa chair would indeed be more comfortable...” started Sherlock, indicating that he could still read John’s mind like an open book, “but I need access to at least four electrical outlets--which can only be found in close proximity if we sit at the kitchen table. Having my technology at my disposal will make it easier for you to follow along.” 

John sat down on the wobbly chair while Sherlock disappeared into what he assumed to be his bedroom. Like a flash of light he was gone--and back in ten nanoseconds, it seemed to John. Sherlock returned with two laptops and something resembling a small video camera. He set them on the table like school trays and plugged everything in with one hand, all the while pushing the power buttons with the other.

Sherlock then proceeded to pull the other chair right next to him and to finally sit down. His elbow was touching John’s as he typed in what look liked a series of passwords to unlock access to his laptop. Finally, Sherlock turned his head and looked directly at John. His eyes were clear and focused. John had forgotten just how striking and alien-like Sherlock’s eyes were in close proximity like this. If a photographer ever had the chance to take a close up shot, he would probably be awarded the coveted cover shot for National Geographic or something.

“You watched the secret camera footage this morning. Any hypothesis as to why I left it to the last minute to send it to you?”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” John said. “But no need to hypothesize, Mycroft already informed me that you didn’t want me to _dwell._ But, this is exactly the kind of thing that pisses me off, Sherlock. You can’t make these assumptions and withhold information from me if you want us to work together again. And who says I would dwell?”

“Because I know you,” Sherlock sighed. “Alright, how many fairy tales did you proceed to investigate after you saw the footage?”

John felt himself colour a bit. He _had_ read an absurd number of fairy tales in the short time frame after seeing the clip of Moriarty going on about old fashioned villains--none of them offering any insights as to why Sherlock had to leap off a tall building. How many more would he have looked up if he’d had more time?

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, reading right through him. “And how many different interpretations of I.O.U. did you come with?”

“Just the one,” John replied, and before he could stop himself, “Is it significant? I just assumed the jerk was taunting you. Are there more meanings?”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Six,” he replied as if he couldn’t help himself from showing off a bit. “But they’re not important right now. And you’ve just proven my point, John. Had you had more time, you would’ve wasted countless hours looking up possible meanings for I.O.U., and it would not have made one bit of difference to this conversation today. I predicted that you would’ve watched the footage countless times, analyzing every word and every detail obsessively. In other words, you would’ve dwelled.” 

“Alright, alright… I might’ve dwelled--but I still would’ve preferred full disclosure,” John said, exasperated and faintly pleased. Arguing with Sherlock felt like old times. “Anyway, you have more important explanations to give me than the late delivery of the news of your tea party with Moriarty.” 

Sherlock’s gaze met his directly. “Yes, exactly.”

“So what did it all mean? Some parts were obvious... ‘falling is just like flying’ or something like that. I suppose that’s when you started planning how you would fake falling to your death?” John inquired, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone and not quite succeeding. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock neutrally. “That part was easy, but that was never Plan A.”

 _Easy_. The word sliced through John like a scalpel.

There was so much to figure out. So many opportunities for Sherlock’s words to slice, burn and cut, and if John chose to suffer every little trauma Sherlock inflicted, they’d never get to the big one—why he’d been excluded right from the very start--and he might bleed out from it. 

John made the decision to not call Sherlock on any of his insensitive or emotionless turns of phrase so they could get to the crux of the matter more quickly. 

“Smart decision,” said Sherlock, breaking the silence. “I believe that everything I will say will irk you, John.”

_Irk is putting it mildly._

“Just go ahead and explain. I don’t need you to hold my hand.” 

“Good, because I wouldn’t know _how._ ”

Well, wasn’t that the truth? John would be wise to use this as a little reminder to help him shunt the less than tactful remarks Sherlock might blurt out in the next few hours. He had to let Sherlock be himself. It was a little late for John to teach him to be more sensitive. He knew his friend, and deep down he knew Sherlock wasn’t completely oblivious to his feelings--he just didn’t know how to manage sentiments and facts at the same time.

“So, Moriarty visits 221B...” John prompted, feeling strangely calm. “I’m listening.”

Sherlock looked at him with such gratitude that John wondered if Sherlock could in fact read his thoughts when their eyes were connected like that. 

Sherlock stretched and leaned back gracefully in the narrow chair (how was that even possible without tilting over to the side and unto the floor?). He closed his eyes and began his narrative as if performing for an audience. 

“See, it was all a game--une partie or a partita, if you will--and everything was layered in double, even triple meaning,” said Sherlock, sounding a little too admiring and wistful for John’s liking. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and met John’s directly. 

“Yes, we were playing a game and yes, _I liked it._ ‘Come and Play’ we’d text each other, more often than you knew, and those three words were as powerful as the sweet anticipation of drugs. And Moriarty didn’t disappoint, John--his puzzles _were_ cocaine. But it all ended that night at the pool, I swear. I fought the urge to take part once he made _you_ a game piece.” 

John believed him. He’d seen his reaction when he’d informed Sherlock that Moriarty was back. The text message had said: _Come and Play--Tower Hill._ Sherlock had not demonstrated glee. Just determination.

“But you had to pretend to still be playing in order to beat him?” guessed John.

“Yes.”

“Did you, Sherlock? Beat him? Is that what you’ve been doing these past ten months?”

John saw Sherlock hesitate for a millisecond before answering, “He’s dead, but I’ll get to that part later.”

So, Jim Moriarty had been eliminated. Perhaps Sherlock had killed him. John was unsure how to feel about this. Probably because in the past year, people who played those kinds of ‘battle of wits’ games were apparently hard to kill. Irene Adler had died what--twice in the same year? Sherlock had only died once... but his death had been such an outrageous suicide stunt--surely it was worth double? So why not fucking Moriarty too? Perhaps the game was called ‘resurrection’ for all he knew. 

“Are you sure he’s really gone?”

“Yes, definitely. As I said, I’ll get to that later. Just focus on the secret footage for now,” Sherlock instructed.

John silently acknowledged that he was indeed lacking focus. He had his no-longer dead flatmate sitting right next to him. Sherlock looked alright (alright enough that Mrs Hudson would not notice any changes) but John knew Sherlock well. He hadn’t been eating properly, despite the fact that none of it showed overly in his facial features. It just made his cheekbones slightly more prominent. So yes--it was difficult to concentrate when all he wanted was all the answers at once all the while worrying about Sherlock’s wellbeing (as if that were still his role).

John felt like he was being pulled in two different directions—like he was in a tug-of-war with himself, his subconscious wanting to fall into all their old roles: studying Sherlock and deducing whether he’d been eating and sleeping, admiring his skills and deductions, helping him zone in on pertinent information by asking relevant questions--by basically _caring_ for him. But his conscious mind was sounding alarm bells—warning him that things were not the same. Sherlock had not earned his trust back just yet and he felt it wouldn’t be wise to just fall back into old patterns. 

He’d do well to protect himself despite the fact Sherlock had shown some real emotion earlier on. Yes, the hug had been nice and comforting. But it wasn’t enough to make John sweep everything under the carpet. He had to start reminding Sherlock (and himself) who was calling the shots now.

John crossed his arms tight over his chest and looked at his watch: 21h00.

“Okay, Sherlock, you have one hour; then I’m heading back to my hotel. Tomorrow I will attend my two day conference on diabetes, and I will meet with you again Sunday afternoon if necessary.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively while typing something on his laptop. 

“You’ll be done after the keynnote speaker Saturday morning. Everyone--”

“You’re wasting time wanting to have the last word, Sherlock. One hour.” 

Without looking at John, Sherlock set the timer for one hour on his iPhone. In the past he would’ve whinged and bargained for more time. John felt a little sad that the easy camaraderie between them was gone. 

“I’m adding time if you interrupt me needlessly or if you’re being purposely obtuse,” added Sherlock with a tiny side smile. 

“Well, I’ll deduct time if you’re going to be difficult!” John replied and they both laughed slightly. 

Well, perhaps the easy friendship was not entirely gone. Just in remission.

Sherlock started again, his voice deep and almost melodious. 

“The final problem--Moriarty’s masterful last game for us--was choreographed to Bach’s Partita no.1--as in it had four different acts or rhythms: ciaccona, the end one, being death.”

“So the final problem was to kill one another? Good Lord, you geniuses are stupid!”

“No. The final problem was much more elegant than that.”

“But the ultimate stakes being death--”

Sherlock sighed as if there were a clear difference between staying alive and not dying. 

“Death is too simple. It’s actually less painful to die than to stay alive without any...”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and there was an odd look in his eyes. He grabbed his phone and flipped it twice nonchalantly before looking at the timer. 

“Since you have given me a strict time limit, I won’t go into the intricacies of the psychological aspects of the game,” said Sherlock making it sound as if it would take days for John to ever understand. “I will consequently fast forward to the more practical aspects.”

John kept his mouth shut. He had no desire to waste time and have to leave without answers. 

“Moriarty’s visit to 221B was to both establish the ground rules and show the game’s pieces. Everything he said and did were clues on how to play and solve our final problem.”

 _What kind of criminal leaves clues? One who thinks it’s all a game._

“See, Moriarty would not have been satisfied defeating me if he hadn’t been fair. It is more satisfying to beat a worthy opponent,” said Sherlock seemingly reminiscing about his nemesis. “But I said I would stick to the facts of that day.” 

Sherlock paused before continuing. “Do you have any questions? Anything jump out at you?”

“Well, yes, two things did: you made tea for the psychopathic bastard and offered him my chair.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John, I—”

“Never mind that, I was just trying to…” But John couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t know what he’d been trying to do. Tease Sherlock? No—he was genuinely pissed that Sherlock had played civilized host with fucking Moriarty.

_Let it go._

John took a sip of water. “I want to know why Moriarty felt he owed you a fall. He made it sound as if it were to balance things out, to pay for a fall you’d given him?”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock somewhat proudly.

“Like some kind of Bach partita metaphor thing?”

“ _Think,_ John. What is Moriarty’s profession? What is mine?” Asked Sherlock.

 _Consulting criminal; Consulting detective. Oh!_

“You climbed to the top because you kept solving the crimes he had set up! ‘You’re nothing without me’ he said. He meant that you wouldn’t have risen to the top and become a famous detective without him to actually give you something to solve.”

“Very good, John—and?” 

John tried to shunt the small burst of pleasure Sherlock’s approval at his deductions gave him (but that didn’t prevent him from trying hard to figure out the “and”).

“ _And_ because you kept solving his puzzles, his reputation suffered. People don’t want to pay a consultant and get caught afterwards. You interfered with his business and he lost clients… so he owed you a fall!”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said with a smile. “But you’ve missed the real reason.”

_Of course he had._

Sherlock continued. “I don’t believe Jim Moriarty cared too much about his clients and whether they ended up in jail or not. He meant that he owed me a fall because I had become cleverer than he. His puzzles were intricate, and I was solving them all,” Sherlock said with a pleased expression. “He didn’t like that his clients didn’t trust that they would not get caught. They wouldn’t take the risk because they believed—rightly, I might add—that I was cleverer than their mystery criminal consultant.” 

“But, why would he claim he didn’t exist--that there was no Jim Moriarty if he wanted to prove he was the cleverest to his clients?”

Sherlock sighed, “As I said, he couldn’t care less about his clients. He just needed them in order to keep the game going. He wanted to prove to _me_ that his skills were superior. He wanted to outwit me. Solve the final problem.”

“Oh, so the final problem was also to determine who was the cleverest of them all—instead of who is the prettiest of them all?” said John. “Wait! Is that the fairytale? Snow White?”

“Very creative, John,” said Sherlock with a slight smile tugging at his lips. 

Sherlock reached in his sleek computer bag for paper, pencil, a ruler, and even a pink eraser. Sherlock looked like a school boy--not only due to his youthful appearance--but by the way he was concentrating on organizing his supplies on the table in perfect order. John half expected him to draw him an apple or something. 

“Er, what are you doing?” John inquired, wondering if Sherlock was purposely trying to kill time in order to avoid getting to the crux of the mattter--

“Don’t worry. A picture is worth a thousand words--and cuts four minutes of explanation,” explained Sherlock. It was difficult to see what he was drawing, his right arm covering the paper protectively.

Needless to say, John was more than surprised when Sherlock proceeded to--in fact--draw him an apple.

“What the hell—oh--the apple Moriarty ate... fairy tales... so it _is_ Snow White.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. Then he proceeded to add a few things to his drawing.

After a few minutes, Sherlock handed the sketch over to him. John peered at the very accurate drawing of an apple into three progressive transformation phases. The first one showed an apple by itself with the letters I.O.U. carved into it; the second one depicted the bitten IOU apple sideways so the bite was prominent; and the final one showed Sherlock’s laptop logo: a bitten apple.

John crossed his arms over his chest and frowned slightly. “He poisoned you through your apple computer?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. No one can hack into my laptop. It was yours he ‘poisoned,’ remember?” 

“Yes--he posted an entry on my own blog,” he recalled. “Wait a second, are you saying _I’m_ Snow White???”

By the way Sherlock’s eyes were twinkling, it seemed he was quite entertained by John’s grand deduction.

“I’m saying no such thing. If anything, you would make an adorable dw--” 

“Don’t say it!” interrupted John. “Let’s get back to I.O.U. carved on the apple, shall we? Does it mean anything?” 

“Obviously. Remember, double and triple meanings? The letters are meaningful, John. They are important to understanding everything.” 

John took a peek at the sketch again. So, Moriarty had come to 221B to explain the game and somehow indicated that Sherlock’s laptop was a game piece? 

“If the bitten apple represents a computer, what would you say I.O.U. stands for in computer terminology?” probed Sherlock.

As far as John knew, I.O.U. was an acronym for a promissory note for services owed or rendered. Perhaps he should’ve listened to his guidance counsellor in his younger days--or was it that dratted fortune teller?--and gone ahead and become proficient in high-tech because he had no sweet clue how these letters could possibly have anything to do with computers.

“I don’t know Sherlock; why don’t you tell me?”

“Actually, John, you do know—you’re just not used to using the proper terminology when interacting with the technology.”

John sighed. “Go on.”

“I.O.U. is an acronym for ‘input/output unit’ and refers to the communication between a computer and the outside world,” said Sherlock in a tone that implied that everything should now be clear to John. 

It wasn’t.

Sherlock looked at the time on his stopwatch with a discouraged expression. “John, it’s not overly complicated. Input units are devices like a keyboard, a mouse, a camera, microphone, et cetera… and output units are tools like printers, speakers, and projectors, and so on. Of course, Moriarty was using the more sophisticated tools, but basically, the I.O.U. on the apple referred to information technology.”

John supposed this would be a lot more fun if they were working on a case together—if he was helping Sherlock extrapolate data and put clues together. But right now John was tired and a bit on the defensive. If Sherlock dared to call him an idiot… 

“John, just think of the I.O.U. as a clue that everything Moriarty was talking about was tech related,” said Sherlock earnestly. 

Well, at least Sherlock wasn’t being his usual impatient self.

But now John was confused. “I don’t see how any of this fits in with fairy tales, Bach, and having to fake your death. What’s the common thread? The I.O.U.?”

John was regretting setting a time limit now. There was a lot to unravel, and having to do it in front of Sherlock instead of in tandem was not a relaxing experience. But as it stood now, it seemed that the explanation was getting even more muddled.

And even if this entire thing had to do with IT, he still had no idea why that meant he had to be excluded right from the start.

John made a decision. “Pass me your phone, please.”

Without hesitating, Sherlock placed the phone in John’s extended hand. When John went to press stop on the stopwatch, he found that he needed to enter a password to gain access to the screen. 

Before he had a chance to return the phone to Sherlock, his friend said, “4JHW”. 

It took a second for John to realize that was Sherlock’s password and what the number and letters probably stood for. He entered the password and stopped the timer on the stopwatch.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. 

John gave Sherlock a long, measuring glance before saying, “Yes, well, it seems like we’re going to need more time after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> I posted the sketch Sherlock drew for John on my LJ if you want to take a peek:  
> [IOU Apple](http://opaljade.livejournal.com/27776.html)


	4. IOU an Explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless gratitude to my wonderful friend and beta, Lariope. Thank you for your constant encouragement and help.

~~~***~~~

Sherlock watched as John picked up the IOU apple sketch again--his brows furrowed and his lips pursed slightly as he tried to make the connection between the information he had heard so far. It was obvious that John was taking longer than usual to formulate a hypothesis.

Truth was, it had taken _Sherlock_ a tantalizing amount of time to detangle Jim Moriarty’s tightly woven riddles. (And he had not even been trying to prolong the eureka bliss that came with solving a puzzle of such high caliber.) 

Really, he couldn’t blame John for being tentative.

Moriarty’s game plan had not been linear. One couldn’t just pick up one clue, solve it, and build upon it to solve the next one until the entire ‘thing’ was sequentially solved. 

No, Jim Moriarty’s plan had been so much more elegant and _layered_. It had been a clever and convoluted puzzle--the best Sherlock had ever solved and trumped. Really, had it not been for John Watson, Sherlock knew he would’ve enjoyed it to the point of figuring out a way to make it last in order to play another round. 

Well, no sense in reminiscing, he needed to concentrate on John now. He needed to present the facts in such a way that John would understand what the stakes were and how Moriarty’s game tactics had left him no choice but to proceed with the ‘suicide.’ 

John coughed slightly, still staring at the drawing of the apple. “So, right, okay. Moriarty was letting you know that he was going to be using computers to burn you,” said John.

“Right. His plan was all embedded in high tech. In fact, ‘ _Jim from IT’_ was indeed a self-portrait; Moriarty was quite tech savvy. Certainly knew his way around the internet.” 

“Spider at the centre of a web?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied.

He liked when John made these kinds of double entendre connections. It was clever. Not that Sherlock was about to spew accolades like John did--but still, it brought him a certain amount of pride that his best friend’s brain could gather bits and pieces of data and make connections without having everything spelled out for him. (Confirmation of his own good judgment; John Watson is not stupid.)

John tilted his head. “What about you? I didn’t realize you were such a computer expert.”

“Not an expert… but I do intuitively understand how a machine works. And that’s all a computer is, John: a machine. All based on the principles of codes--which you never neglect to remind me just how proficient I am at cracking. Why do you think the press nicknamed me Boffin?”

Sherlock observed a fleeting look of guilt travel over John’s features. Oh, of course; John had called him a machine before his confrontation with Moriarty and had probably spent months regretting it. 

The fascinating part was, he’d been just like a machine with the extensive amount of input and output of data that had travelled through him to get the puzzle solved. But no sense in even attempting to highlight the irony to John; he would not appreciate it at this point. 

Before Sherlock had time to re-direct the conversation away from what seemed to be an awkward topic, John had already moved past the ‘machine’ reminder. 

“So Moriarty used tech to create a modern day fairy tale--with him as the old fashioned villain. And you couldn’t share any of this with me?” inquired John, his question loaded with skepticism. 

“At that point, I was still gathering data--you know my methods, John. I don’t like to formulate a hypothesis before all relevant variables have been explored. I was not trying to exclude you.” _Not at that point, at least._ “But by the time I had pieced it together, it was too late to include you. Why was it too late, you’re wondering? Because the last clue of the game not only brought everything together, it also cornered me. And as you know--put you in danger.”

“And when exactly was that?” 

“After the yard. After the little girl, Claudette, was forced to scream and I took a cab home by myself.” 

Sherlock recalled how everything had seemed to be rapidly imploding around him at the time, providing numerable clues and extra game pieces simultaneously: the assassin who couldn’t shake hands with him; the metaphorical fall; the sir-boast-a-lot tale; and the Yard’s loss of faith in him.

“Ah, yes--you were quite upset in the flat afterwards--going as far as suggesting that Moriarty had managed to shake my belief in you,” John said softly.

John bent his head and pursed his lips, seemingly to gather up the courage to capture Sherlock’s arm and carefully run his thumb up and down the inside of his wrist (unexpected action, probably unconsciously checking pulse, confirming systolic pressure, gentle, not unwelcomed). 

“I never doubted you, Sherlock. Not then at the flat, and not on the rooftop either or after. _Never_.” John squeezed his forearm to accentuate the meaning of his words.

Sherlock had never doubted John either, but at the time it had felt like the walls were closing in on him. He supposed that’s what happened when fear and sentiments were mixed in with unknown variables. 

“I know, John... thank you.”

Sherlock realized that this was probably a very poor exchange of comfort. He should be the one reassuring John. Funny how he seemed only to be able to outwardly show he cared when he was performing in order to obtain evidence. He felt that if he did it now, it would look suspect or insincere. He had always buried his care deep within and somehow always thought John would see it inside if he looked at him hard enough. 

Sherlock wanted to demonstrate to John that his faith was reciprocal—that he had never doubted John either, but he didn’t know how to do that. Was he supposed to touch John’s hand too? Check his pulse? No, that would be ridiculous.

The moment passed before Sherlock could decide on a gesture, and John’s hand left his wrist. 

“So after the yard, you were able to collect significant data? Apart from the camera bug in our flat, I gather?” inquired John.

“Correct. Moriarty sent me two other ‘IOU’ messages—clues, if you will—and the second one, after the apple, was spray painted on the windows of the computer lab office located across from the yard—confirming further connection to high tech.”

“I’d want to keep that to myself too,” said John with calm sarcasm. 

Obviously, John still could not see why he could not have shared any of this with him. True, it all seemed farfetched and not very significant in terms of secrecy and level of danger. The problem was, this was not the order he had wanted to present the facts to John. But it couldn’t be helped—that’s how conversations worked, apparently. He was hardly in a position to ask John to stop asking questions, was he? 

“Tell me about the third IOU, then.”

Sherlock recalled clearly when he’d noticed it, painted vividly on the brick wall of the apartment complex right across from 221B. It was right after Lestrade had led him outside after arresting him upstairs. At that point he had been feeling on edge despite his calm demeanor in front of John. He’d been desperately trying to avoid the corrante—the fugue phase of the partita—which ultimately led to the final act—the ciaccona—his death. He’d also been trying to figure out how the video camera Moriarty had planted could be used against him, and then there it was—the game changer, the unbearable proof that Moriarty could wreak havoc from a distance and that John was in danger—the IOU with black wings. That’s when everything froze and crystallized in his mind--bringing a strange clarity to the individual pieces of the puzzle. And with that had come composure. He would outwit Jim Moriarty at all costs.

That’s when he had known that despite the fact that he had most of the relevant data, none of this could be shared with his best friend John if he were to successfully execute his plan. Ironically, that’s also when John Watson had demonstrated loyalty beyond anything he had ever experienced (or deserved) by hitting the moronic chief superintendent and ending up handcuffed to him. (As if they’d needed that to stick together.) 

“There was an IOU painted on the brick wall across from 221B. Did you happen to notice it when you were taken into custody?”

“Er, no, you started firing a gun before I had a chance to admire the new street art in the neighbourhood.” 

Sherlock pulled up the exact image on his laptop. (Easy; Mycroft had enough CCTV cameras around his flat to have obtained a record of it.) 

“Here, take a look,” he turned his laptop towards John.

“Nice. And what was the meaning behind that one—your computer was going to fly away?”

“Those are angel wings, John. _Black_ angel wings represent a fallen angel. A synonym for fallen angel is demon,” Sherlock knew he was talking too fast, but the information just wanted to pour out of him. He just wanted this to be over with. “So, in the technological sense, an IOU with black wings means a computer daemon.”

“Of course it does.”

“John, surely you know what a daemon program is?”

John looked at him blankly. Good Lord, that’s what happened when people used technology and never bothered to find out how it all worked. And people thought he was strange when he took things apart. He didn’t have time for this. He was desperate for John to understand, yet there were so many roadblocks in getting the story out. Now he had to explain how a computer worked to a man who typed with two fingers and solved every technology problem by punching it twice and unplugging the device for at least half an hour. 

“It’s another one of those ‘things’ people use on a regular basis without being mindful of the proper terminology.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, but a daemon program doesn’t ring a bell at all. What is it exactly?” 

Sherlock sighed internally. He might be doomed to a John-less life since the crux of his explanation hinged on John understanding the hidden significance of this simple computer tool. 

“A daemon is a computer program that runs as a background process rather than being under the direct control of an interactive user,” defined Sherlock verbatim. 

John shook his head indicating that he did not understand. 

_Try again. Simpler terminology…_

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and looked to the ceiling for inspiration. “A daemon is a hidden program that is triggered by _circumstances_ or _events_ instead of an individual.” 

Sherlock searched for simple example. “A thermostat is programmed with a daemon. For example, if the temperature goes below 17Cº in the flat, the heat will go on without needing human interaction. The number seventeen actually triggers the action.”

John was still frowning at him. Lord God, thought Sherlock, at the rate they were going he’d have time to die for real this time—of old age. _Not good_ , Sherlock immediately chastised himself on behalf of his friend. 

“John, daemon tasks are very common. You probably used a daemon program this morning when you set an ‘out-of-office’ email. The daemon is triggered by a condition instead of a person—in this case the date—to send a message without you having anything to else to do but set the date. I assume you did that before you left to meet me here?”

Understanding seemed to be seeping over John’s features. Finally.

“Yes, I guess I did use a ‘daemon’ this morning. I thought you meant something evil.”

“Not necessarily. I could go into the etymology of the name, but it’s not important. But you do understand the basic principle behind a daemon now?”

“I think so. A daemon tells your computer what to do if you can’t do it yourself. You saw that Moriarty could do something through some computer program without actually being there, is that right?”

_Oh, John. Yes. You’re brilliant, I could’ve never explained it in such vague and inaccurate terms. Please understand the rest too._

“Yes.”

“And that something has to do with the computer key code?”

“Indirectly.”

John sighed, dropping his head in his hands tiredly. Sherlock felt a wave of despair. He could recognize when someone was giving up on him. He’d had plenty of practice at reading the signs. 

_Give me a chance, John. It all fits together._

Sherlock wasn’t sure if what he was about to do would make things worse or better, but he knew John and knew time was running out. He needed to show what had happened on the rooftop. If he outlined the facts and made John listen to the evidence, surely the conclusion would then be obvious?

“I knew Moriarty was going to make me jump. He gave me transparent clues—obvious enough that even you picked up on it when you saw the footage. He also gave me plenty of time to figure out how to stage it.” _He even went as far as giving me hints on how to do it._ I went ahead and planned it, confident I would never need to use it.” 

Sherlock forced himself to carry on and ignore John’s wince. “I had deduced he would use you again; I was hardly going to fall to my death without a good reason, so when it was close to the final confrontation, I sent you away. I had to make it look like I was playing the game. Moriarty knew what you meant to me, you see?” 

“I don’t even know what I mean to you, Sherlock,” said John tiredly. “I know we’re friends, but I also thought I was your colleague—that I was of some use… not leverage or a pawn in a game.”

_He’s still calling me a friend; Excellent._

“Correct—friends and colleagues. A team.”

“Yes, because _‘this is my cab—you get the next one’_ and _‘no, on my own’_ are the very definition of team,” said John sarcastically. “I know this is a cliché, but there is no “I” in team, Sherlock.” 

_There is no I in ‘protect’ and ‘keep safe’ either._

“There is in win,” he said instead.

John rolled his eyes. 

“John, I knew that Moriarty had something up his sleeve, and I knew he would use you to corner me. I already had my plan in place to fake my fall, but I did not want to go through with it. At that point, I knew I had to outwit Moriarty, but I needed the fake fall plans just in case.”

“So you asked Molly Hooper to help you,” said John. 

“Yes, obvious choice. She could provide the fake autopsy and manage other aspects of the plan which I’ll explain later,” said Sherlock in one breath, ran a hand through his hair, and continued at the same fast pace.

“It became paramount that I be able to break into Moriarty’s files in order to ‘bring back Jim Moriarty.’ He was in the process of ruining my name, and I suspected he had the ability to do severe damage from a distance. I planned and set in motion plan A in the little amount of time at my disposal. This occurred after Kitty Riley’s flat, when you went to visit my brother to confront him about babbling to Moriarty, no doubt. It was the perfect distraction, by the way; thank you.”

John looked at him incredulously. “Why? Where did you go?”

“While Mycroft was busy conferring with you, I broke into my brother’s top secret files to retrieve Jim Moriarty’s coordinates and personal information. I believe that Mycroft explained to you that they held him in captivity while we were involved with the Baskerville case? Well, they had all of his personal records at my disposal.”

Sherlock thought back to that night. It had been brilliant and really fabulous just how quickly he’d been able to put it all together in one evening. John would’ve been overawed had he been privy to all the lightning fast thinking he’d exhibited that night. Outstanding creative problem solving. Jim had been a worthy adversary. He’d created the most elaborate serpentine of puzzles—and Sherlock had beaten him.

Except it didn’t quite feel like a win whenever he looked at John sitting next to him. In fact, it felt like Moriarty had forever created a gap between John and himself, and even though they were close in proximity, it was as if an abyss lay in between them.

“John, I have an audio footage of what took place on the rooftop prior to my ‘suicide.’ This is probably going to be difficult for you to hear, but it can’t be helped. I originally thought I could just brief you on the relevant facts without having to make you listen.”

“I think I prefer it, Sherlock.”

“I believe the best way to proceed is to listen and then ask me to pause whenever you have a question. The audio quality is good.”

Sherlock didn’t mean to sound so detached. Here he was conversing with John as if they hadn’t been pried apart from each other for almost an entire year, as if they were just discussing a regular case and the sound quality was the main concern, as if John wasn’t his priority…

“Fine,” said John. “Actually, can you hold on for a second? I’m going to get more water.”

Sherlock stood abruptly. “I’ll get it.” Not that providing water was going to prove to John that they were a team—that John was important—but still, he wanted to make some kind of effort to make it look like he wasn’t completely unaffected.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Once they were both settled again in their chairs and more water had been consumed, Sherlock proceeded to connect the necessary equipment and started the audio footage for John. 

Sherlock watched John attentively—fully expecting him to ask Sherlock to pause the audio every single time Moriarty uttered a word. But no, with typical John Watson composure, he listened calmly, eyes closed, for a significant amount of time. 

Moriarty’s voice was playing, but Sherlock was barely paying attention to the words; they’d just been going through the preliminary stages of the game—the warm up, if you will.

_Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?_

_Richard Brook._

_Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do._

_Of course._

_Attaboy._

_Richard Brook in German is Reichen Bach—the case that made my name._

_Just tryin’ to have some fun._

_..._

_Good. You got that too._

_Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That’s why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head—a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system._

_I told all my clients, ‘Last one to Sherlock Holmes is a sissy.’_

_Yes, but now that it’s up here, I can use it to alter the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty._

_No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy._  
 _This is too easy._  
 _There is no key, DOOFUS!_  
 _Those digits are meaningless. They’re utterly meaningless._  
 _You don’t really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I’m disappointed.  
I’m disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock._

_But the rhythm…_

_‘Partita number one’. Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach._

_But then how did…_

_Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?_  
 _Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants._  
 _I knew you’d fall for it. That’s your weakness—you always want everything to be clever._

John tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips. “Could you hand me some paper and a pencil? And I’d like you to play it back from the start.”

Silently, Sherlock reached for paper and writing tool for John and pushed it over to him. The recorded rooftop scene started playing again, and Sherlock deduced the main three points John would mark down in his notes: ‘Richard Brook’ being a play on words, the finger tapping of the rhythm, and the questionable existence of the key code. 

“So, this was taking place in the morning while I was hurrying back to help Mrs Hudson,” said John, clearly just thinking out loud. Then, he looked down at his paper. “Interesting stuff about _Richard Brook_. You’d figured out it was a play on words but kept it to yourself while Kitty Riley tried to convince me there was no Jim Moriarty. Top secret information, that. You just stood there and said nothing. I suppose you were gathering data? Didn’t want to let the psychopath know you were one up on him?”

Sherlock just nodded yes. He wasn’t about to waste time explaining the silent conversation he’d been having with Moriarty at the time. 

John sighed. “Okay, then, describe to me what Moriarty saw that made him say ‘you got that too’.”

“We were face to face, and while Moriarty was bragging about the nice touches he’d added to the game—meaning the double entendre on Reichenbach being his stage name—I had my hands behind my back and was tapping the same finger rhythm you saw Moriarty doing on his knee in the flat. You did notice that, right?”

“Yes, I watched it three times this morning—still fresh in my mind,” John paused, as if realizing another reason why Sherlock had left the footage to the last minute. “Do you want to explain why you did that, the tapping thing? Or is it irrelevant?”

 _Smart._ Again, Sherlock was struck by how well John was managing the facts. He himself felt as if he were bursting at the seams, wanting to have all the data splatter on the table and be done with it.

“Yes, it is relevant, good question. But for the sake of proper terminology, let’s call the ‘tapping thing’ the binary code. And yes—” Sherlock continued before John had a chance to ask, “all of Bach’s music can be transcribed into binary codes. I was demonstrating to Moriarty that, of course, I knew that. But it also served a dual purpose—the details will fit in better later on in the audio.”

“Okay, fine,” said John and made note that said ‘significant later.’

“So, the infamous computer key code,” said John after a few seconds of reflecting. “Who was bluffing?”

Sherlock awarded John a silent bonus point for knowing one of them _had_ to be bluffing. Either Moriarty had the code and was pretending it didn’t exist, or there was no key code and Sherlock was pretending he’d been fooled. Smart. 

The problem was, the computer keycode was practically irrelevant to his explanation, and he didn’t want to waste time going into the intricacies of the Riemann Hypothesis. Poor John—if he thought a daemon program was complex, he’d have an aneurysm understanding the principle behind the programming of the hypothetical powerful keycode. It was still considered the most important unsolved mathematical problem of all time. If the Riemann Hypothesis was ever confirmed, it could in fact decipher any security encryption schemes, open any locked doors, and ‘crash the world around everyone’s ears.’ 

John was looking at his notes, lost in his own thoughts. “I bet it was Moriarty who was bluffing, Sherlock. Because it makes no sense for Mycroft and ‘the British Government’ to have taken Moriarty into questioning before he even broke into the Tower, the prison, and Bank of England.” John said a bit more animatedly. “Your brother said Moriarty was the most brilliant criminal mastermind the world had ever seen and in his pocket—the ultimate weapon—the computer keycode that could unlock any door. Remember, he betrayed _you_ to get information about the keycode.”

Sherlock sighed inwardly. Should he tell John how they got the clearance for that extra twenty-four hours at Baskerville? That he’d given Mycroft carte blanche to tell Moriarty what he would in exchange for that little favour? (Truth be told, he had assumed Moriarty would’ve discovered his life story on his own anyway. University records were ridiculously easy to get into.) 

“John, I can share what I know about the keycode, but it has no immediate bearing on the explanation.”

“How can it have no bearing!? Weren’t we trying to figure out where Moriarty had left it in 221B so you could prove Richard Brook was a fraud and bring back Jim Moriarty?”

“Yes—you’re right, John, but in the end, that’s not how I brought back Moriarty. Can we listen to the rest of the audio? I will gladly discuss all the loose ends at a later point, but if you really want to know why I had to fake my death, we need to move forward.”

John sighed. “Alright, carry on.”

Sherlock rewound a bit and pressed play again. Shortly after, it was Sherlock who paused the audio without being asked and replayed the same part over. This was important—crucial, in fact—and he needed John to make a mental note of it, because he would refer to it later on.

_I read it in the papers, so it must be true. “Genius detective proved to be a fraud.”  
I love newspapers—fairy tales… and pretty grim ones too._

“Oh,” said John. “That part was significant? Just sounded like he was taunting you.”

Sherlock observed as John wrote down the three sentences he’d just heard. Would he believe the importance of them later on?

But the audio was moving forward now, and John was writing something else that he couldn’t quite see and underlining it twice. He should’ve sat to John’s right to get an open view of the paper—as it stood now, John, being a leftie, was hiding what he’d written. Sherlock peered over slightly and saw **insane** written in block letters with two lines underneath it.

Lord God, now John would think the entirety of the events on the rooftop could simply be attributed to a man gone insane. _If only…_

Sherlock let the audio resume without commenting.

_Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive.  
Your friends will die if you don’t. _

_John._

_Not just John._

_Mrs Hudson._

_Everyone._

_Lestrade._

_Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now._

Suddenly, John stopped writing abruptly and reached over to stop the audio himself. He ran a hand through his hair. 

“Whoa, Sherlock, I knew Moriarty had threatened my life and was using me as leverage, but I didn’t realize that there were three of us being threatened and that it was Moriarty’s final checkmate to force you to jump.”

 _That_ had not been the final checkmate… Sherlock had already deduced John would be an incentive. Clearly, he wasn’t going to jump for no reason.

“So, you risked your life to save ours,” continued John emotionally. “You had no choice,” he added as if that was a sufficient explanation.

Interesting, thought Sherlock. John seemed to think that was all there was to it. He could stop the audio now, and John would assume that this was why he’d done it.

“But Christ, Sherlock, you could’ve avoided all the theatrics had you included me right from the start. I could’ve just shot the bastard before you were even in danger.”

Sherlock felt a warmth spread through him like a sunrise from within. John wasn’t even thinking about how much danger he’d been in because of him. He was willing to shoot someone again to protect Sherlock’s life—without even knowing his true sacrifice. It was tempting to leave it at that, but Sherlock had already decided to stick to the truth. 

“My life was never in danger. Yours was.”

“Well, yes, but we could’ve prevented that had we been working together right from the start.”

“No, John. Moriarty wanted you as an incentive. It was better that I was fully prepared when he did so than to let him take you when I was not prepared. I made that mistake once.”

John was now doodling three dimensional arrows in the margin of his paper. This usually meant he was about to say something sentimental.

“Sherlock, I don’t mean to be ungrateful about you risking your life to save ours. I understand now; the snipers had to see you jump in order for you to save us.”

“It’s not just about the jump. Let’s listen to the rest of the facts, shall we?”

The audio resumed once more, and this time John let it run all the way to the syllable rhythm code: _“I don’t need to jump if I’ve got you.”_

“Er, was there a special reason why you said it like that—in that sing-song-y voice? What was happening?”

“What was happening? We were just playing the game,” said Sherlock, lost in thought. “I was brilliantly executing plan A—that is, stopping the killing order without needing to jump. I asked for a moment of privacy and walked to the edge of the roof. I knew then I could, in fact, access a recall code.”

Sherlock thought back to his witty double play on words when he’d taunted, _‘I don’t have to die if I’ve got IOU_ ’—he’d just received confirmation that he’d successfully broken into Moriarty’s input/output devices.

“I used the sing-song-y voice to demonstrate I had his passcode, which was in fact the finger tapping of the partita--the code translated back into a musical rhythm tune instead of binary. Remember in 221B when he sang the same notes… _but did you listen?_ Same rhythm. I had everything at my disposal to bring back Jim Moriarty. In fact, I had texted him to let him know I had something of his he might want back—his ID.”

“How the hell did you do that? Surely you two didn’t bring your laptops up there?”

Sherlock knew that in a different context, with more time at their disposal, John would be able to grasp the fine art of cryptology communication—including the handshake protocol—but right now, time was a luxury, and Sherlock had to skip right over it. What could he use to compare the wireless communication codes they’d been using? 

“Are you familiar with Bluetooth?”

“Er, yeah. Sort of. Something about enabling communication with your mobile using headsets when you’re driving?”

“More or less,” said Sherlock graciously. John wasn’t even close. But he couldn’t blame John for his ignorance. The technology was relatively new. Sherlock decided to oversimplify his definition as well. “Bluetooth is a form of wireless technology. It uses a radio link to connect your devices instead of a cable or wifi. So, basically, you can use it to input and output data via your phone and radio signal by pairing them with a matching passphrase.”

“The Bach partita rhythm wasn’t the keycode, it was Moriarty’s passcode!” said John with admiration in his voice.

Again, a very over simplified conclusion, but close enough. Close enough that Sherlock felt the familiar sensation of pleasure cascading through him at the thought he had impressed John with his intellectual prowess. 

“Yes, I managed to successfully pair with Jim Moriarty’s devices. You can even hear the connection on the audio if you listen carefully. It’s like a distant squealing sound exactly 8.7 seconds after Moriarty says _‘Of course’_ to my request for a moment of privacy.”

He played it again for John starting at the beginning of the exchange.

_Would you give me a moment of privacy… please._

_Of course._

Sherlock observed as John counted to nine in his head. 

“Yes, I heard it this time. Can you describe your bloody game strategy for me, Sherlock? There must be a reason why you laughed and showed him your cards.” John had given up taking notes.

“Very good, John. The reason I laughed was because I was letting him know that I had gone through the first layer of security. But he didn’t believe that I could get any further. That was _his_ weakness: assuming that because I stayed on the side of the law, that I wasn’t devious enough to obtain the other security components. In a second you’ll hear me convincing him that I am not an angel.”

John smirked. “I could’ve told him that.”

“Yes, you were certainly qualified to.” He smiled. “Ready to resume the rest of the audio?”

_You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?_

_Yes. So do you._

_Sherlock, your big brother and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to._

_Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you—prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you._

_Nah—you talk big. You’re ordinary, you’re on the side of the angels._

_Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them._

...

_No, you’re not.  
You’re not ordinary. You’re me._

Sherlock remembered the relief that had flowed through him once he’d managed to put a doubt in Moriarty’s mind and convince him to look into his eyes—where the evidence of his ‘not being an angel’ was located. 

He’d played the game well—his tactics spot-on—right down to where he had chosen to stand so as to provide the optimal lighting for Jim Moriarty to see the contact lenses. 

_Thank you,  
Bless you._

He’d thought the game was over then. That he’d beaten Moriarty. The handshake had confirmed it. But then the clever bastard had shot himself. Checkmate. 

_Well, as long as I’m alive, you can still save your friends. I understand that. Well good luck with that!_

The audio continued to play until the sound of the gunshot exploded, making John jump slightly. His eyes were wide, his face frozen into a stunned expression. He dropped his pencil on the table. 

“What the _hell_ happened there, Sherlock? ‘Angels’, ‘you’re me’, ‘bless you’, and a fucking _gunshot_?”

There was a sharp edge to John’s voice, like he knew Moriarty had killed himself and he didn’t quite believe there was another surprise of such magnitude that had been kept from him.

“Yes, the gunshot you heard was Jim shooting himself in the mouth to force me to jump.”

“ _He_ committed suicide?”

“Yes—in order to win the game.”

“How the fuck is being dead considered a win?”

“Because he accomplished his final problem. I died in disgrace.”

“But you’re not dead.”

“Irrelevant.”

Sherlock observed John’s composure evaporating quickly as if the news of Moriarty’s suicide had taken his blood past the boiling point. John was talking fast, and his face was getting red.

“I don’t fucking understand, Sherlock. What happened up there? Why did he shoot himself? Was he truly insane? You pushed him over the edge?”

_Oh, John, we don’t work that way. We might be labeled freaks or insane, but no amount of petty emotional trash talk is ever going to tip the scales and cause someone of our caliber to off themselves. There’s always a reason—a concrete reason._

“No, John. I didn’t push him over the edge. Moriarty didn’t kill himself because I claimed I wasn’t on the side of the angels. Think!”

“Layers? Bloody metaphors? You two were talking about something else?”

“Yes. In fact, I was telling him that I had stolen his identity from the British Secret Service by breaking into my brother’s top secret files. Mycroft was demoted, by the way. Therefore ‘I walk amongst the angels, but I am not one of them.’ Simple metaphor.”

‘What exactly did you steal?”

“His blueprints--so I could reproduce his biometric…”

Sherlock saw John frown and decided he’d better clarify biometric just in case. 

“Biometric is a form of identity verification. It is when one of your physiological characteristics is used to identify you. That means instead of entering a password to gain access to your devices, you enter a physical characteristic that is unique to you—like your fingerprints or your voice. It is difficult to counterfeit when compared to a password or ID card. Think of Major Barrymore in Baskerville—I deduced his passcode by looking at his collection of Margaret Thatcher books. Easy.” 

“I know what biometric means, Sherlock, but which physical attribute was Moriarty using?”

“He was using his eyes—an iris code. The band pattern on the iris is unique to every individual and can easily be transcribed into binary codes. Of course, there was no way you could know this from just listening to us. But when I claimed to ‘not be an angel,’ Moriarty finally suspected that I might’ve acquired said biometric. He stared into my eyes in the natural light and saw the outline of the contacts. The band patterns are darker on a replica. He then realized that I could stop the order—I had replicated part of him on myself.”

“Oh, that explains why he kept saying _‘you’re me.’”_

“Exactly.”

“So that’s why he shot himself?”

“He was cornered, yes. But unbeknownst to me, he had a second biometric—his heartbeat. As long as he was alive, I could use his devices to abort the killings. But as soon as the heartbeat stops, the entire communication system shuts down. Therefore; ‘ _As long as I’m alive, you’ve got a way out. You can still save your friends.’_ So obviously, he had to stop his heartbeat in order to stop me. Death is a very efficient way of doing just that.”

Suddenly John jumped out of the chair and stood behind it as if he needed extra space between them.

“Let me get this straight. Moriarty _killed_ himself. Moriarty was fucking _dead_ , and you still went through with this?” 

“John, the snipers—you heard. I had to jump to save all of you! I had to…”

“No, Sherlock, you didn’t have to—if Moriarty was dead, you could’ve said to me. _**To me.**_ ‘I’m about to jump but it’s not real. Snipers are aiming at you.’”

“John, I couldn’t. His men had to see me jump, and it had to look convincing. If you’d known—”

John was like a bull presented with a red flag. “Christ, Sherlock! I would’ve freaked even if you would’ve told me. You jumped off a fucking five story building. It looked real! Moriarty was dead. He was dead! Why did you say all this bullshit about being a fake? I’m sure the hired assassins didn’t care about that shit!”

Sherlock was momentarily stunned into silence. He had not anticipated that John would perceive Moriarty’s suicide as a proof of betrayal instead of proof of his sacrifice. Smart but erroneous deduction on John’s part.

“John—” 

But John was too livid to be interrupted. “You just wanted to disappear for a while, didn’t you? Detangle Moriarty’s web on your own, not caring about who you hurt in the process, you asshole! Telling me you’d made it all up—that you were a fraud. Making me think I couldn’t talk my best friend out of committing suicide! None of that was necessary since Moriarty was dead all along.” 

“John, John, listen. I told you Moriarty could do harm from a distance.”

“But he was _dead_! That’s a pretty fucking far distance!”

“Well, yes, quite far. But that was exactly the problem. I had to do exactly as he said to stop the killing order on you and the others.”

“Sherlock, Moriarty was dead. At the very least you could’ve told me something cryptic, a hint that it was all a set up. Even saying nothing would’ve been better. The snipers would’ve seen you jump and seen me grieve. No need to be extra cruel. And here I thought I could hear you crying for fuck’s sake. You probably just had an eyelash stuck under your damn contact…”

_Actually, yes. But that wasn’t the only reason I was crying, John. I hated doing this to you. I hated calling myself a fake._

“John, remember the IOU with the black wings?”

John took a deep breath. “The daemon?”

“Yes. Moriarty wanted to outwit me so I would die in _disgrace_. That was the whole point of this—the final problem. John, listen carefully, the true recall code was hidden in the newspaper headlines. I taped my confession—I admitted I was a fake, that I had made up all the cases, and that I was committing suicide because of it. As soon as I sent it on a newswire, the combination of the words _fake, genius,_ and _suicide_ triggered the daemon and stopped the killing order.”

John stopped short, clearly surprised at this latest development.

“John, you have to believe me. It doesn’t take very long for the news wire to travel with modern technology. I was already paired to Moriarty’s iPhone. There was probably an assigned killer at the yard, stalking Lestrade while watching the news update on the internet. The sniper assigned to you probably got the news firsthand on his phone. It probably even rang. So he had to see me jump and see the accompanying words too.”

John still looked skeptical, but his anger seemed to have been diminished somehow.

“You’re quite correct, John, I don’t think the hired help really cared whether I was a fake or a genius. They were just obeying orders. I could’ve just let the snipers see me jump to save you, but instead I claimed that I had made up all the cases and that I was a fraud. Isn’t that proof that I had no choice? You know what the work means to me. I would’ve never willingly chosen to ruin my own reputation just to disappear. I had to insure that all of Moriarty’s trigger words were present in order to save you. I had to die in disgrace.” 

John looked completely deflated. 

“So all that crap about newspapers being fairy tales—that wasn’t just trash talk? Is that why you kept insisting that I spread the word around? That I tell everyone who would listen? You needed to make sure it made the headlines.”

“That’s right. A modern day fairy tale.”

John sat back down in the chair and rubbed both his temples with his fingertips as if a major headache had set in.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I—”

“No, don’t apologize. You had no way of knowing, plus you were clever to assume that Moriarty’s death meant I didn’t have to claim to be a fraud anymore. The recall code was not obvious.”

John said nothing but the words ‘exhausted’ and ‘overwhelmed’ hung above his head like a blinking sign.

“It’s a lot to take in,” said Sherlock.

“Damn, right,” John replied tiredly while sipping the rest of his water, eyes downcast. 

A long silence settled between the two friends. Finally John looked up and surveyed Sherlock in a pensive manner.

“Sherlock, I understand that you had to do it in order to save my life—but it’s still a lot of bloody information to make sense of. I’m going to go back to my hotel now and try to digest all this stuff. Can I see you again tomorrow evening?”

Although it was a reasonable request, it bothered Sherlock immensely. Why did John need to go? He’d revealed all of the relevant facts as patiently and succinctly as possible. He’d broken it all down for him into tiny pieces. There was nothing left to digest.

“Stay, John,” he said. Aware that his voice had grown husky, Sherlock coughed to clear his throat and added, “You have better odds of piecing it all together in my presence.”

Coking his head, John fixed Sherlock with a steady, searching look.

“I can’t stay. I’ve already gone past the allotted time,” he said, not unkindly. “I know you’ve given me all the puzzle pieces I need, Sherlock, and you’ve also told me what the final picture looks like… but I still need to put it all together myself. I need to see how it all fits.”

“If you must,” Sherlock said. 

“Alright then, goodnight.” John stood, put his coat on, and added quietly, “It was good to see you, Sherlock,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also, thanks again to Lariope for her extraordinary patience. I don't know how many times she read this chapter for me. 
> 
> Thanks also to [arianedevere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html) for use of the TRF transcript.
> 
> If you are interested in reading more about the theories presented in this chapter and their connection to TV and ACD canon, please take a peek at my LJ: [here](http://opaljade.livejournal.com/28537.html).
> 
> ETA: Well, S3 has now aired and I still think elements of my theory fit very nicely with the Sherlock Canon. I think Moriarty is dead for real and I believe that he is creating havoc 'from a distance' through the newspaper headlines--just like it was proposed in this story. ;D


	5. The True Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I owe a great deal to Lariope for her extraordinary beta work and encouragement.

~~~***~~~

 

John walked approximately thirty meters down the street before stopping abruptly to retrace his steps back to Sherlock’s flat. The reason wasn’t because he had no sweet clue how to get back to his hotel (though that was true)—but because he felt like he was missing something. Something important—like forgetting to go back to a skipped question on an exam.

Sherlock had given him all the pieces—yes—but he felt as if there was still a significant fact he had overlooked. 

Sherlock had looked so… sad when he’d left. Why? It wasn’t as if John had told him he was ending the friendship or anything. He’d just needed time to think! Sherlock had told him so much (and even though it sounded somewhat _complicated_ , John knew that it all fit together) but John had needed to take a step back to think.

Suddenly, he sped up—even if he couldn’t fucking put his finger on what exactly was nagging him—he just wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again, alive and breathing. Sherlock _had_ given him a satisfactory explanation—he knew that—so why the hell was he wandering around this city without him? 

John reached the blue door a little out of breath, and the door opened before he even had time to knock.

“You don’t know how to get back to your hotel,” said Sherlock.

A gentle wave of happiness cascaded through John at the sight of his best friend standing in the doorway. Jesus—it still felt a bit surreal to see him in person. 

“Right. But that’s not the reason why I came back,” John explained.

“Oh—” Sherlock said a bit unsure. “Why?”

“Sherlock, I…” he paused, not quite knowing how to say what was swirling in his head. “I was beyond devastated when you died, and I came here hoping—no praying—that there would be a good reason behind all of this because I didn’t want to end our friendship.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“But just because I can’t process everything right now, it doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. Or that… what I’m trying to say is—I was without your company, and now you’re back, and I don’t want to leave things like this.” 

There was a strange light in Sherlock’s eyes, and if John had not been so busy fighting the prickly feeling behind his eyelids, he might’ve noticed it.

“I missed you,” said John gruffly.

“Let’s go for a walk, then I’ll take you back to your hotel,” Sherlock said quietly.

John felt relieved. “Yes--alright. Good.”

Sherlock turned back inside his flat to get his coat. When he returned, John had to fight a bout of vertigo at the sight of him wearing his familiar long black woolen coat. He swallowed. Naturally, Sherlock looked more like his old self dressed this way—but John couldn’t help but think back to the last time he’d seen Sherlock wearing it.

“Oh, I see you’ve brought back your crime-fighting coat,” John said to fight off the unpleasant memory. 

“Well, as you know, I always take the precaution of a good coat and…” he trailed off uncomfortably. 

At that, they both laughed. More than their light banter warranted. But John knew the laughter wasn’t about garments and teasing, it was more like invisible stitches slowly pulling a friendship back together.

Their eyes met and they stared at each other, smiling, for what seemed like a long time, despite the fact it couldn’t have been more than seconds.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said, breaking the eye contact to set the alarm with lightning speed.

John sighed fondly at the dramatic swirl of Sherlock’s coat when he pivoted back towards him and out the front door into the soft Paris night. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

They had been walking side by side in silence for the last fifteen minutes. The walkway framing the Seine was sprinkled with tourists and bits of pieces of conversations in different languages could be overheard whenever they crossed paths. 

Sherlock was staring straight ahead, looking quite serious. No, not really serious. More like solemn, actually—as if he had a lot more to share but was waiting for John to indicate that he’d digested the plethora of information from earlier on the evening. 

John found that he didn’t really want to process everything at the moment. He felt super-saturated—like a dry plant that had been submerged in water after being neglected on the windowsill, the earth so dry that the new moisture just ended up floating on top. 

Right now—at this very moment—the only thing that mattered was having his best friend walking next to him. A friend who had provided a satisfactory explanation for his actions, and whatever piece was missing, John would have to trust that it would come to him eventually.

John took another sideways peek at Sherlock, who turned and gave him a rapid half-smile and again seemed to want to say more but remained quiet.

Of course, there were still facts John was curious about—like _how_ the bloody hell had pulled it off.

But it wasn’t a pressing matter. And truth be told, John wasn’t ready to know yet. It was still too raw. He knew it would be clever, ingenious and probably quite outrageous plan. But it still hurt like hell to even think about Sherlock falling.

But in whatever way Sherlock fooled everyone, one thing was for sure—he’d risked his life up there to save his friends. A life for three lives. 

_That’s not quite true, is it?_

Sherlock said he had never been in danger… not that John was fully convinced of that fact. Sherlock had always seemed to put his life in jeopardy during the course of their work and think of it has no big deal. There was no way Sherlock had been in no danger at all—if nothing else the roof of St Bart’s was pretty damned high.

The thing was, Sherlock had seemed to think the danger was irrelevant. That it wasn’t the main thing. Not what John should be focusing on. Why? 

_That’s what I forgot to ask. That’s the unanswered question_. 

John slowed down, trying to remember what had been said that now seemed so significant.

_I had to die in disgrace. That was the whole point of this._

_The headlines needed the word 'fake' in order to stop the killings._

_Tell everyone who will listen. I made it all up…_

It was then that it hit John full force like a rugby blow, low in the gut.

Sherlock hadn’t risked his life up there—he’d sacrificed his _work._

Christ—by admitting he was a fake, he had in fact renounced his career. He’d forsaken his opportunities to work on further cases. Nobody would hire a bloody consulting detective who had admitted to making up his cases, even if his name was cleared. The public would always have a seed a doubt about Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock wasn’t the type to go out of his way to explain how he’d been cornered into disgrace.

 _My life was never in danger. I had it all planned._

Jesus, it would have probably been easier for Sherlock to give up his life than ‘the work’. 

Sherlock, who felt he was nothing if not brilliant. 

_The work is all that matters to me._

Something seemed to squeeze John’s chest cavity tightly—tight enough that he was almost short of breath—as understanding swept through him. 

Sherlock, who couldn’t stand to be without a case for too long, whose brain rotted without the stimulation of a puzzle, who sought drugs to numb his senses and replace the high of deduction… had given up what mattered to him the most in order to save John.

With that realization fully setting in, John felt an overwhelming flow of awe and affection for Sherlock.

_Not a hero, my arse._

John stopped abruptly, feeling the need to let Sherlock know that he understood the magnitude of what he had done despite the fact that hadn’t quite processed all the explanations just yet. 

Sherlock turned around when he noticed John had stopped moving.

“Are you alright?” he inquired.

John was having a hard time putting it into words.

“No—yes. I just… Christ, Sherlock, it was your _work_ you—”

“Not here, not now,” Sherlock interrupted with a strange look on his face. 

“I just want you to know that I get it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and swallowed. He looked at John briefly with an odd look that seemed to express both gratefulness and embarrassment at the same time. Sherlock quickly averted his eyes and looked at his feet.

Then a renewed wave of warmth seeped through him at the realization that Sherlock was more than likely feeling a little vulnerable at being caught acting human. 

John smiled at him but saved the ‘thank you’ for later. It was obvious that was what Sherlock preferred. 

John turned towards the safety railing adorning the Seine to take an extra moment to fully appreciate what the true cost of the final problem had been.

It was dark and the ornate lampshades were casting shadows on the path. John leaned over and looked down at the water below.

Sherlock walked back towards him and leaned over too. John looked at him, and Sherlock smiled—his first real smile since… since forever, it felt like.

Johns still couldn’t believe what Sherlock had sacrificed. He felt something change inside of him—a feeling so full of pride and affection that it seemed to move him to the core. This brilliant man—his absolutely crazy and outrageous flatmate—had given up his essence, his raison d’être, in order to save his friends. 

The revelation felt a little bit like being drunk—giddy and light—and John decided to tuck the feeling away for now so it could be re-examined later, when every explanation, every piece of the puzzle and every epiphany could be dissected closely and privately. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

John and Sherlock sat next to each other on the aeroplane much in the same way they had sat on countless cab rides in the past.

Needless to say, John had not been able to properly concentrate during his conference and had not bothered to return after the first day. He wasn’t going to claim it anyway. All he’d thought about was Sherlock, Moriarty’s sick game and the amazingly complex man sitting next to him quietly. 

John turned and looked at Sherlock openly. It was still odd to be able to do so. He had this constant urge to touch him. Not only to check his pulse, but also to feel the skin beneath his fingers, to feel he was within arm’s reach and wouldn’t disappear from his sight again. 

Could he really trust Sherlock not to go off on his own again? What would he do without the work?

“You have questions,” said Sherlock without looking up from the journal article he was reading.

John had tons of questions but settled on, “What next, Sherlock?”

“The aeroplane takes us to our destination, and then we go home. Simple.”

It wasn’t simple. 

“Home—yes. Er, Sherlock, are you planning to return to Baker Street or live with your brother?”

Sherlock made a face as if he’d swallowed curdled milk. He would not be living with Mycroft, then. 

“You can—if you want, that is… you’re welcome to stay with me in my new flat for a few days.”

According to Sherlock’s expression, his flat was no better than Mycroft’s place. Sherlock put the journal article aside and turned to him. “John, plans have already been made for our return to 221B.” After a few seconds he added, “Thank you.” 

It took an additional moment for John to realize Sherlock was thanking him for his offer to spend a few days in his flat. 

“Do you need Mycroft to handle the lease situation?” Sherlock inquired. 

John laughed. Move back to Baker Street?

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it. In fact, moving back into the flat seemed inevitable—as if 221B was, in fact, intrinsic to their friendship. But his lease was up in two months, and the thought of having Mycroft Holmes quietly making ‘arrangements’ irked him in a way that he couldn’t quite describe at the moment. Also, he just didn’t have it in him to start packing as soon as he arrived back to his place. It seemed all the energy he’d harvested had been used for the sole purpose of meeting Sherlock again and now he just felt drained.

Perhaps an eight week buffer period before he moved back in would be good. It would also serve as a reminder that John could not be taken for granted no matter what.

“Sherlock, I have a lease until the end of June. Perhaps we can talk about it again in two months?”

Disappointment passed over his face. “Of course,” he finally said.

“How are you going to survive without cases, Sherlock?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as if that was of no great importance. But it was important. Sherlock went crazy when he was bored. Did that mean he would go back to drugs like in his younger days—before he was doing consulting work for the Yard?

He sighed loudly as if John had voiced his concerns out loud.

“I’m going to finish my Master’s thesis,” he said. 

John couldn’t hide his surprise (not that it would’ve done any good to try—Sherlock was in fine mind- reading mode it seemed.) 

“Really? I didn’t even know you had started one. What field? How far did you get?”

The subject seemed to be excruciating to Sherlock. He winced. “Well, technically, I never started it. Biochemistry--but it seems I’ll be working out of the Forensic Science Department.”

“When did you apply?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and, tapped a few things with quick efficient finger jabs and handed it over to John.

It was a text from Mycroft.

_School of Biomedical Sciences_  
 _Department of Forensic and Analytical Science_  
 _Congratulations, you’re in. Now apply._

John smiled. Sounded like typical Holmes brothers communication. Still, he was surprised Sherlock had agreed to go along with it. 

“Accreditation won’t hurt when Scotland Yard comes up with their new policy on hiring consultants for cases,” acknowledged Sherlock.

Sherlock was undoubtedly right; the yard would need to conduct an internal investigation and change some of their procedures as a result of the charges laid against Sherlock almost two years ago. 

“And how do you feel about being back in the world of academia?”

Sherlock sighed. “The bureaucracy will be tedious. But since I refused the grant money, my supervisor has pretty much given me carte blanche to do as I please with my research. No hidden agenda to please whomever is funding Dr Gillis.”

They talked a bit more about Sherlock’s research—something about developing effective, practical, biomarkers to use at crimes scenes—and how he was going to go about testing his hypothesis without access to said crime scenes. 

John thought it was an interesting thesis to explore—fit right in with Sherlock’s need to bypass theory and go right to practical application of biochemistry—but what secretly pleased him was how animated Sherlock was about the entire thing. It would certainly help to have Sherlock fully engaged in something for a significant amount of time while the publicity of his return died down.

“So, I suppose you have an action plan to manage the media upon your return?”

It was apparent he did not wish to talk about it. 

“Really, John--‘Action plan’? This is not a political reform of any kind,” he said dismissively. 

“Sherlock, the public will be talking about you the minute you step off this aeroplane. What I’m asking is, are you prepared for this?”

Sherlock made a must-we-continue-to-talk-about-this face before answering.

“It’s already out in the papers as of yesterday.” 

“Yes—you already showed me the newspaper Sherlock; what I want to know is how you feel about it.” 

Sherlock had shown him the newspaper article that announced to the world that he was back. _Sherlock Holmes Found Alive._ The article also claimed that Sherlock would face charges after his supposed fake suicide.

“What I feel is irrelevant. The investigation is, of course, bogus; my name has already been cleared. That’s tomorrow’s headlines, by the way.”

If he were to go by the way Sherlock was tapping his fingers nervously against the armrest, John figured he wasn’t as unaffected as he claimed to be by the publicity his re-emergence was likely to stir. 

The tapping stopped, and Sherlock asked, “However, if my brother feels that a press conference is necessary—would you… Could you… assist me?”

“Of course,” John said. “You don’t even need to ask, Sherlock.”

After a short while the conversation eased into a comfortable silence, and John yawned. He was beyond tired. He pulled out the small white pillow from under his arm and placed it over the oval window and rested his head on it. “I’m going to take a short nap there, Sherlock, if you don’t mind.”

“Splendid idea,” said Sherlock as he reached for his journal article once more.

John closed his eyes and felt the heavy comfort of relaxation pushing his eyes closed. He hadn’t felt this tired in ages, and he figured it somehow made sense. He was drained both emotionally and physically.

John was on the verge of sleeping when he felt Sherlock shifting next to him and raising the armrest up between them. Then he felt the weight of Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and shifted slightly, settling his head more firmly into his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing! Much appreciated. :D
> 
> Next chapter: Sherlock reluctantly helps John move and finally shares "how" he did it with John.


	6. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless thanks to my wonderful friend, Lariope, for the beta and the insightful feedback.

~~~***~~~

 

Sherlock sat in the crowded waiting room, pretending to read a newspaper. Once the woman (John’s patient, late thirtys, possibly pregnant) had left the examination room, Sherlock stood and moved past the busy front desk of the surgery and stepped into newly-vacated examination room number two, carefully closing the door behind him. He removed his coat and hung it on the hook provided at the back of the door. He peered around the room, but there was nothing of interest, except perhaps the ovulation /due date calculator wheel left on the edge of the desk confirming his hypothesis to be correct; the mid-thirtyish woman who had just exited the room was indeed pregnant. 

Sherlock moved some papers around and found the reflex hammer on John’s desk, took it, and then sat down in John’s swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk, and waited patiently.

He had not seen John in three days. They’d texted daily; mainly messages from John not-so-subtly checking to see if he’d turned to drugs by inquiring about his well-being and research _(How is your experimental design going Sherlock? Find the right assay yet? Do you have any food in the fridge? Must be happy the publicity has died down, eh? You’re not too bored, are you?_ ) 

Sherlock had replied with only ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers. If John was truly interested, then he could just move back in to hear the full version from him in person.

The truth was, they’d been back in London for nearly four weeks, and during that time, Sherlock had spent a considerable amount of time fighting off boredom. Yes—his research kept him somewhat busy, and the detangling of Moriarty’s web with the Remote Access Trojans (or the RAT project as Mycroft liked to call it) was under control for the time being. The publicity surrounding his return had died down—thanks to the birth of a Royal baby. _Timing could not have been better,_ Mycroft had said (as if Sherlock had planned the entire thing around the gestation period of the future monarch). 

His thoughts were brought back to the present when he heard John approaching. He brought his feet down to the floor just as the door opened.

John’s eyes widened when he saw him. “Sherlock, you can’t just walk in here,” he chided John. 

“Apparently, _I can._ Easily, in fact.”

There was a certain amused light in John’s eyes indicating he didn’t really mind. 

_John is happy to see me._

More than that—John was happy to be surprised. The fact was, John secretly liked Sherlock to do unpredictable things. For all his calm demeanour and impeccable manners, Sherlock had long known that John got a small thrill at the element of surprise Sherlock brought. And as it so happened, Sherlock was quite pleased to provide it.

“John, I have good news.”

John looked at his watch. “Sherlock, I’m working. I need this room to see my next patient, and I have another one waiting for a test result next door.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Your next patient is a stressed out teacher who will try to convince you to write her a note to be off-work for a minimum of three weeks. I suspect this is not the first time she has asked, and you will be too kind to tell her that she is simply in the wrong profession. The young man next door said he was here for a sore throat; you’ve clearly just taken a swab to rule out strep, but when you go back in with a negative result, he will admit that he’s actually here because he’s worried about a potential STD. You will be mildly annoyed that you wasted time writing up an entire sore throat history, but you will still take a STD history and order the proper tests instead of asking him to reschedule another appointment. Therefore, my bringing you good news is in fact beneficial to you, because it will make you happy despite the fact that after these two appointments, you will be dreadfully behind schedule through no fault of your own. Also, it will amuse you to have everything I have just said being proven right, and you will be thinking about how brilliant I am instead of being irked.” 

“ _You’re_ also putting me behind schedule right now, Sherlock.’ John gave him his small half smile. “But, go on then, what’s your good news?”

“You’re moving back into 221B this weekend,” he announced. 

John lifted an eyebrow. “Is that right?” he said, “I still have four more weeks to go on my lease.”

“John--”

“Seriously, Sherlock, that’s your good news?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock started somewhat impatiently, then switched to his ‘performing’ voice. He knew John would see through his charade, but he also knew he would play along. “I am giving you the chance to help a member of my homeless network—poor Lizzy—who is trying to put her life back together. Your flat is perfect for her, but she needs it now. She has also enrolled in the community college two blocks down and cannot wait another four weeks to move. You’re not really going to ruin her chance at rehabilitation for the sake of four weeks, are you?”

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock could tell he was still amused. 

He switched back to his normal voice. “And besides, you don’t even like where you live and you miss Baker Street. So, yes, I consider me putting you out of your misery ‘good news’.”

John scratched his forehead and sighed softly. “Okay, fine. I will move back this weekend on one condition: you help me move. Physically help me move—as in you’re carrying my boxes down two flights of stairs and then placing them in the moving van until there are no more boxes.”

Sherlock had not anticipated such a request. He was not _that_ bored. Lifting boxes was a waste of his time.

“Mycroft can arrange—”

“No, Sherlock. You’re helping me—or you can wait one more month. But of course, since you care so much for poor Lizzy who’s trying to get her life back together…” 

John didn’t have a chance to finish making his point. There was a knock on the door.

“Doctor Watson? I need your signature for this.”

John turned and opened the door. “Come in, Marie.”

The door opened and ‘Marie’ (a nurse practitioner—no—no longer a nurse, now a med student, fourth year, first week in the GP rotation) entered and beamed at John before turning to him and exclaiming, “You’re Sherlock Holmes!” 

“I know who I am,” he said brusquely. 

Marie smiled and stepped into the room, undeterred by his abrupt greeting. John closed the door again and turned to make formal introductions. _Tedious._

“Yes, this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” said John smiling at Marie. “And Sherlock, this is—”

“Marie. A former nurse. Soon to be a doctor. A long distance runner. Allergic to sea food. Owner of a black cat. Environmentally conscientious. And likes to travel to unique destinations.” _Looking for a husband. Feels biological clock is ticking. She believes John has potential._

“Incredible! That’s borderline spooky,” said Marie, clearly impressed.

John was equally awed. “Did he get anything wrong?”

“No, spot on,” said Marie beaming at John as if he’d been the one who had extrapolated the correct information from the given evidence. 

But John wasn’t looking at Marie, he staring at _him_. With pride. “Yes, he’s truly unbelievable.” 

John’s praise seemed to fill him with warmth. _Pathetic._ He shouldn’t be craving John’s accolades like a cracked river-bed waiting for rain.

Sherlock changed the subject. “Alright, I will help you move on Saturday. What time do you need me to carry your boxes?”

John smiled. “We’ve just decided to be flatmates again,” he said to Marie. He turned back towards Sherlock and missed the disappointment on Marie’s face. 

“Come in the afternoon, Sherlock, around two o’clock. I’m sure I’ll still be packing in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded. Things were finally starting to get back to normal. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

On Saturday, Sherlock decided to go help John move earlier than planned. It wasn’t exactly an altruistic decision. He just needed to glean as much information as he could about where John was in all aspects of his life including potential love interests and their disturbance of their friendship.

Marie was a problem. She was the right age, right height, and, needless to say, right gender. During the brief time Sherlock had met her, she had demonstrated an impressive combination of spunkiness and wit—attributes John liked in a partner. Marie, Sherlock concluded, was not conductive to permanent flat share between him and John. 

He’d hardly sacrificed everything only to return to London and facilitate John’s migration into the land of the long term relationships. He could’ve stayed away. Could’ve found crime scenes anywhere else in the world. Maybe even a new Moriarty. And undoubtedly, police forces around the globe could use his help. It would not have been difficult. No, he’d come back to London with a ruined reputation, had to return to academia, and had to wait to be involved with the Yard. The idea of enduring these irritations without John’s presence was unpalatable. 

He reached John’s building. It was a two story brownstone which called to mind Kitty Riley’s flat. Sherlock entered the building easily, the front door being unlocked. He walked up the two flights of stairs and stood in front of John’s door. He could hear music playing inside. 

He picked the lock and opened the door. At first sight, Sherlock was glad that the flat was dull. Nothing impressive. Boring beige carpet. Sterile. He was, indeed, doing John a favour by getting him out of this dreadful place. 

Sherlock entered the kitchen and was thrilled to see a calendar up on the wall. (A simple, but significant source of data). 

So, John was still seeing his therapist--interesting. Lunch with Harry on Wednesday; his death had probably brought their relationship closer. John was scheduled to watch a “friendly” match between England and Spain at the pub with Mike the following Tuesday. And he was also scheduled to attend a casino night fundraiser at the end of the month. No mention of Marie or a date. Truck to arrive at 3:30PM this afternoon.

Enough data to deduce that John was still having a difficult time processing the events that had occurred during the past eighteen months. He was better but probably didn’t want to jinx it by stopping his visits to his therapist. John was socially active but not ready to date anyone just yet. _Good._

Sherlock glanced down the hall with its two doors opened. He took the spiral stairway to what was obviously John’s loft bedroom. (Leg not pained him after death). He reached the top and stopped. 

Facing away from him, John was kneeling on the floor, taking books off a shelf and placing them in a box. He was obviously focused on his task and had not heard Sherlock break in and make his way upstairs. Sherlock scanned the room; it was almost completely bare—John was nearly finished packing his belongings upstairs except for the photo albums on the bottom shelf.

For no logical reason, Sherlock found himself staring at the soles of John’s bare feet. The skin was smooth and the colour homogeneous. His toes were perfectly rounded and fleshy, like grapes arranged by increasing size. His instep looked smooth and soft. John took good care of his feet. For a fleeting second, Sherlock wanted to touch them. 

Feet contained one quarter of the bodies’ bones; each foot had thirty-three joints and over one hundred tendons and ligaments. Feet provided insightful of data about a person. One could detect everything from diabetes to nutritional deficiencies, he reasoned.

_That still doesn’t explain why you want to touch them._

Sherlock shook his head to shake the annoying thought away.

John turned, startled. “Christ, Sherlock!” He stood abruptly, and Sherlock was suddenly presented with the top view of John’s feet. Nails clipped straight as expected and good healthy arches. “You scared me. You weren’t supposed to come until this afternoon.”

“Should I come back later?”

John was now appraising him from head to toe with an odd expression on his face. He then reached over the boxes to his cd player and turned off the music. “No, that’s fine—it’s just the music was on so loud. I didn’t hear you picking my lock. I was just thinking about you and—”

“And here I am.”

“Yes, two full hours in advance,” said John still staring at him. “Er, is this one of your disguises?”

Ha. The odd look was a result of his attire—jeans, t-shirt, hooded top, and trainers. “Not a costume—no. You did instruct me to come prepared for physical labour.”

“Right. But still, you run after criminals in a suit.”

“Because it’s so efficient to go home and change before a chase.”

“Smartass.”

“So people keep telling me.”

John’s eyes were still scanning his clothing. “Sorry, I just can’t get over your outfit.” He gave a small laugh, “but I appreciate the effort in the name of physical labour. Okay, well since you’re here early, I could get you to pack the rest of my stuff in the living room downstairs. Come, I’ll show you what needs to be done.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

After a cup of tea and an update on his research, John went back upstairs and left Sherlock in the living room with three empty boxes and two full bookshelves.  
Sherlock grabbed a medical text: _Atlas of Human Histology_ and leafed through it. There were a few handwritten notes and doodles in the margin scribbled by John—indicating he’d probably been bored at the time of the lecture.

Sherlock tried to imagine John as a medical student. He couldn’t. He’d gleaned enough pertinent information about his flatmate during the first few months on Baker Street to create a complete picture of who John Watson was without needing to hear any tedious childhood anecdotes.

Did it really matter how John had felt the first time he went to the dentist? Or on the first day of school? Would John reciting the names of his past teachers reveal anything to Sherlock that he didn’t already know? _Useless data._

Yet, looking at John’s messy handwriting in his textbook had Sherlock wondering what John Watson had been like before they met. 

Sherlock wrenched his thoughts back to the task at hand. No use wasting time on pondering—he could always ask John if need be. 

He finished placing the books in the box, closed it, and labelled it , then brought the box to the front door where the other ones were gathered, waiting to be carried to the van. (A waste of his time—but at least he was wasting time with John—so it wasn’t all that dreadful). 

As he turned back towards the living room, a label caught his attention in his peripheral vision: _Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers._

Clearly the box contained John’s military memorabilia. Sherlock reached over, moved a box out of the way, and picked up the one with the intriguing label. It was light—contents filled with papers, dog tags, possibly photos. 

Before asking himself if he _should,_ he asked himself if he had enough time to open it before John came back down. (Packing photo albums—John would be distracted, taking a few trips down memory lane no doubt. He had enough time to peruse the contents of the box.)

He took his keys, sliced through the tape easily, and lifted the side panels up. He felt a small rush of pleasure at the new John-data waiting to be manipulated and analysed. 

He pushed aside the dog tags—and went for more revealing data. The first item he pulled out was an unopened envelope undoubtedly containing John’s honorary discharge papers; he set them aside. He then reached for a yellow manila envelope filled with local newspaper articles. Who had clipped those for John? The hand writing on them (mostly dates and source) were written in a women’s handwriting. Undoubtedly, a past girlfriend. 

Glanced at an obituary. Captain Trevor Anderson. Yes—Sherlock already knew the circumstances of Major Anderson’s death and John’s role in attempting to save his life. He decided to open the discharge papers--not that he needed evidence of John’s bravery, he’d witnessed it often enough—but it might be useful to view it in a different context. _Just as I thought,_ Sherlock mused after reading the details of John’s near heroic effort during the attack on the military infirmary. This, of course, was what had led to John’s own injury.

Next, he opened an untitled beige folder— _copy of an official report?_

No—it wasn’t. It was even better than that, it was a medical chart. 

Sherlock was already mesmerized. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and began reading the full history of John’s ‘active duty’ medical records. He scanned through a few pages of minor medical issues until he found the day John had been wounded in action. A colleague’s of John, captain Davies, surgeon, had treated his injuries.

_14 September_  
 _Medical base attacked at 3Am. Patient shot with AK47 while carrying Anderson to safety. Entry wound 7mm diameter; exit wound 5cm. Bullet shattered shoulder blade. Bone fragments imploded; lodged in muscle tissue, partial tear of the subclavian artery and axillary vein. Blood vessels cauterized. Both entry and exit wound treated and bandaged. Patient conscious. Vitals stable. Narcotics (Morphine 5mg SC administered)_

_15 September_  
 _Exit wound infected. Temp 41 Penicillin G intra-muscular 1 million units administered at 8AM(Unbearably warm. Lost AC in the attack) Still febrile at 12 pm._  
 _18h00 loss of consciousness. Septic shock._

_16 September_  
 _Exit wound putrid—now infested with maggots. Cleaned wound. Removed maggots.17 September_  
 _MD order to leave maggots in wound for 36 hours – hope is that vermin will debride dead tissue. Patient still unconscious._

_19 September_  
 _Unplanned maggot debridement therapy a success. The organisms have eliminated necrotic tissue, and provided immune boost. Captain John Watson expected to make a full recovery._

“Sherlock!” John barked from behind. “Are you seriously helping me pack by _unpacking_ my boxes?" 

“I’m done,” said Sherlock. He waved a hand in the general direction of the entry where the items to be moved were located. “This is more interesting,” he added, unable to pry his eyes away from the ever fascinating maggot report. An absolute tragedy that he had not seen this before. 

John winced once he was closer and could see the contents of which box Sherlock was perusing. 

“I’ll take this back now,” John said calmly. Too calmly. _He’s upset. Shame._

It wasn’t just the maggot debridement therapy that had Sherlock mesmerized. It was the fact that suddenly, he wanted to know _everything_ about John and his experience in Afghanistan. Really, he could’ve used a bit more time examining the rest of John’s medical report. 

Sherlock looked at John earnestly, “This is fascinating.” 

“Yes—well, thanks. Fond memories and all that,” he said as he took the report, shoved it back into the folder, and slammed the whole thing back in the box. 

Sherlock really wanted to see the exit wound scar—to feel the texture of the epidermis with his fingers, to press on the tissue that had hosted a feast for the small invertebrates who had saved John. 

__But first, he should probably apologize. That was the proper procedure, wasn’t it?_ _

__“I’m sorry I looked at your war memorabilia. You are an impressive man, John Watson.” And he meant every single word (except the ‘I’m sorry’ part at the beginning.)_ _

__John sighed and ran a hand through his hair._ _

__“It would be a great honour if you could let me examine your exit wound scar,” said Sherlock solemnly._ _

__John made an incredulous face. “Sherlock, this is not the time for this. I’m in the middle of moving—at your request, I might add.”_ _

__Sherlock considered John’s statement and found it to be fair. “Are you saying that you will let me examine it at a more appropriate time?”_ _

__“Yes—no! I don’t know. Maybe. You’re impossible, you know that?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__Sherlock decided not to push the subject any further. It wouldn’t do well to annoy John too much on his first day back at their flat._ _

__

__~~~***~~~_ _

__

__An hour later, with easy camaraderie, they started moving boxes into the rental van._ _

__“Eh, I meant to tell you, you were right about my patient the other day. The guy wasn’t even in the office for a sore throat… ” said John as they went down the stairs, each carrying a box._ _

__“Ha. Yes. STD?”_ _

__John made a face. “Probably, from the look of those ulcerations on his prick. How did you know anyway?”_ _

__“Demographically, males that age don’t see a physician unless absolutely necessary. He clearly had no cough. No fever. But looked extremely uncomfortable in the waiting room. Simple deduction.”_ _

__“Superb. Yep—you still got it.”_ _

__“Apparently,” replied Sherlock. They placed the boxes at the back of the van._ _

__On the way back up, Sherlock inquired. “You were shot by an AK47? Doesn’t seem effective to me.”_ _

__“Actually, it’s a military tactic. Those weapons are meant to wound and not kill. When a soldier is shot dead, there is nothing you can do—but an injured one lures out other soldiers and medical crew.”_ _

__Sherlock wanted to ask more questions about the exit wound and the maggot debridement therapy—had John been aware of the maggots when he’d regained consciousness? Did he feel them moving around inside his flesh? A 5cm exit wound. How had he not been aware of that? But Sherlock decided to let the topic go after calculating that it wasn’t worth going against John’s wishes for discussing (and hopefully touching) it at a more appropriate time._ _

__They continued making their way back and forth to the van carrying boxes and conversing amicably._ _

__“How did you know Marie was allergic to seafood?”_ _

__“Easy. During my last unannounced visit to the surgery, I hid in the staff room. There were numerous signs reminding personnel not to bring seafood due to allergies for the next eight weeks. So, clearly, the individual with allergies was only working at the surgery for a short time frame. Marie was wearing a medic alert bracelet, and even though I couldn’t see what it said, the duration of her rotation fit with the length of the seafood ban. I connected the dots and deduced that she must be the one with the allergy._ _

__“Brilliant—well spotted.”_ _

__The praise tingled inside Sherlock.  
__

“So, have you been eating?” John asked as they were climbing up the stairs once more. 

__“Must you always ask me that?”_ _

__“Unfortunately, yes.”_ _

__“Clearly I have been. I’m unable to synthesize air into glucose.”_ _

__“Christ, is that how I should’ve been phrasing it all along? I guess next time you go three days without food I’ll say, ‘Sherlock, please mind the first two steps of cellular respiration.’”_ _

__Sherlock grinned at the thought. It would be nice to have John nagging him again, he supposed._ _

__

__~~~***~~~_ _

__

__After they had finished moving the last of the furniture (bed, frame, table, two chairs, bookshelves and telly) into the van, their easy banter died down._ _

__The afternoon sun and physical labour had made them warm, and they both drank some water directly from the tap._ _

__Sherlock removed his hoodie and wrapped it around his waist._ _

__John was staring at him again. Why?_ _

Ha. Of course, his t-shirt. Stupid. It was an old shirt—forest green with white lettering that said _‘Gravity would’ve been apparent to me without the apple’._

__Sherlock had not even given it a second thought when he’d put it on this morning. This was the garment of choice for physical labour. Did John think it was a reference to Moriarty’s apple and the fall?_ _

__“Does my t-shirt bother you? Mycroft had it made for me years ago. He still finds it amusing. Apparently during a dinner party, at the age of three, that’s what I said to an obnoxious physics professor who’d spent over two decades writing about Newton’s _Principia_ and the laws of gravity.”_ _

__John gave a small, affectionate laugh. “At three, eh? That sounds like you. But why would it bother—oh. Gravity, right, yes. And an apple. No, I wasn’t thinking about your, hmm… fall when I saw it, though. But it’s odd how it kind of fits, isn’t?”_ _

__“Do you want to know how I did it, John?” Everyone had been hypothesizing about it, but John was the only person he wanted to share it with and he had not even asked._ _

__For some unknown reason, it suddenly seemed important to get it out of the way. It was as if he didn’t want to talk about it once they were both back on Baker Street—begin the second phase of their flatshare with a clean slate of sorts._ _

__“How you faked your fall? Yeah, I suppose it’s time,” he said, not too enthusiastically._ _

__Sherlock had rehearsed how he wanted to tell John. He wouldn’t use unnecessary tangents like when he’d explained ‘why’ a few weeks ago in his Parisian flat. He’d stick to the fewest number of facts without going into details._ _

__He went through the basic details in his mind. The ones he would share. He’d remind John that it had been a magic trick—an illusion. He’d never been part of the fall. He’d let John know he had been on a completely different part of the roof on the day of his suicide. Yes, he’d jumped, but only onto a smaller roof; in fact, the fall had not even occurred on the same day as his confrontation with Moriarty, and he’d had the assistance of the trusted Henry Fishguard mannequin. What John had seen had been a simple video mapping—a three dimensional image projected unto the wall of the hospital—a montage he’d arranged well in advance._ _

He’d keep to himself the elegance of his deception. How it was all part of the clever layers Moriarty had created. How the _partita_ had come full circle and mathematically made it possible for Sherlock to fool John or anyone else watching the events at St Bart’s. Yes, the language of motion text for limb articulation was derived from the language of music—specifically, Bach’s partita number one. _Absolutely brilliant._

__Sherlock stared at John’s clear blue eyes and wondered if, after all, he should share the final layer of this intricately clever puzzle. He just might appreciate it as much as Sherlock had._ _

__“Alright, Sherlock, tell me how you pulled it off,” John said calmly._ _

__John’s flat was now completely empty. The late afternoon sun was casting warm shadows of the trees on the bare carpet. Sherlock sat on the floor, signalling to John to do the same._ _

__John sat down next to Sherlock, his back against the wall, resting his arm on his bent knees like Sherlock._ _

__John turned his head towards him and asked, “Go on then, what’s the first thing you want to tell me?”_ _

__“I was terrified,” said Sherlock surprising himself. That was hardly the first thing he wanted to tell John._ _

__He’d planned on explaining his illusion as succinctly as possible, not sharing the internal battle he’d fought (with sentiments) while he was up on the roof._ _

__But it was the truth, he _had_ been terrified. Not of jumping, obviously, but afraid that Moriarty had not underestimated him—that Jim Moriarty had known Sherlock would figure out how to fake his death—and that ultimately he’d been the one to underestimate Moriarty in this convoluted battle of wits. _ _

__What if there had been no recall code? Because what could have been worse than losing the work?_ _

__Losing John and the work and having to live._ _

Now _that_ would’ve truly been the perfect burn-the-heart-out-of-you-checkmate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and commenting. 
> 
>  
> 
> I just wanted to mention that the "how he did it" theory posted in this chapter is based on a modernized version of the ACD canon scene between Holmes and count Sylvius found in _The Adventures of the Mazarin Stone_. In this story, Holmes is able to fool the count by using 'modern' technology to enable him to be in two places at once with the help of a dummy. I think in 2012, that modern tech would be related to IT. ;D And get this... I stumbled on the fact that computerized motion text (to articulate the limbs of mannequins) was based on Bach's partita. For me, it seems like too much of a coincidence to be dismissed. For anyone who's interested, you can take a peek [here](http://opaljade.livejournal.com/28537.html)
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: Post TEH.... I still believe that Sherlock was on two different parts of the roof and used Hi tech to create an illusion. 
> 
> Oh, and the maggot debridement therapy (aka MDT) is based on a true story. I found it fascinating and thought Sherlock would be mesmerized by such a tale too.


	7. Life Goes On...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless thanks to my wonderful friend, Lariope, for the beta and the hand holding.

~~~***~~~

“Well, goodnight then, Sherlock,” said John as he headed down the hallway, past the familiar moss green wallpaper, and up the stairs to his room. 

Once in his bedroom, John prepared for bed with an odd feeling, like he’d swallowed a goose egg. Was he really back in 221B? With Sherlock? The entire move still felt surreal, as if he was just realizing that the flat and his best friend were not, in fact, a mirage he’d created to cope with the void in his life the past eighteen months.

John put his pyjamas on and sat down on his navy bedspread, running his hand over it a few times as if wiping the memories of the last time he’d slept in this room—the night Sherlock had died right in front of him. Christ, he’d felt like he’d been steamrolled over and gutted empty as he’d laid flat on his back all night unable to sleep, breathe or cry.

John blinked to chase the unpleasant memories away and tried to focus on something else. He stared at the unopened boxes he had yet to unpack, and having no energy for such a task, he finally turned off the lights and crawled under the covers to replay the events of his strange move-back-in day. 

They’d packed the rest of his stuff until Sherlock had, of course, crossed personal boundaries and had snooped into his personal things. Though John had been irked at the time, there had been a sort of weird feeling of comfort--as if things were truly back to normal between them if Sherlock didn’t feel the need to guard his actions around him. 

John smiled in the dark at the idea of Sherlock finding out about his unusual treatment for the injuries he had sustained in Afghanistan. Yeah—Sherlock would definitely want to see his exit wound at some point in the near future. John didn’t really care who saw it or touched it. It was just mangled flesh, and truth be told, he didn’t think about it too often; and since it was situated low below his left shoulder blade, he rarely got to see how bad it looked. He’d never shared the maggot story with anyone. He supposed it might feel weird to have Sherlock examine it closely, though. The women he’d slept with—and there hadn’t been that many after his return, thanks to a flatmate who drove them all away before he even had the chance—had never seen the scarred shoulder. He’d never really thought about it until now.

Still, he could expect a curious Sherlock to inquire about it again at some point. Lord God—his flatmate could be such an inquisitive and resilient smartass. To think he’d put a physics professor in his place at the age of three… _Gravity would’ve been obvious to me without the apple._ John gave a small laugh in the dark. 

The t-shirt, yeah—that had led Sherlock to share how he had faked his fall.  
John shifted in his bed.  
The reasons _why_ had always been more important than the _how_ , but if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he had hated being fooled. Hated that he hadn’t picked up on the clues Sherlock had left. And to think that it all had been an illusion…

But the even more surprising thing had been Sherlock’s admission of being terrified. Sitting side by side in his empty flat, Sherlock had bared his feelings in a way John had never seen before. (Certainly different than the time he’d shared being scared in Baskerville.) 

Yes—Sherlock had been afraid that Moriarty had double crossed him, that he would lose both the work and his friends. It was truly moving, John reflected, that the most upsetting fact to Sherlock seemed to be having to be forced to live without both. 

Suddenly, there was a soft knock on his door, and before he had a chance to reply, Sherlock had opened the door and stepped into his room.

“John, can I sit in your room?”

John didn’t even think to ask why. His instinct told him that Sherlock, just like himself, had processed the events of the past day and just needed to somehow re-connect before being able to fall asleep.

“But, Sherlock, there’s nowhere to sit in here.”

“The floor is fine,” said Sherlock, leaning against the wall and gracefully sliding down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Goodnight,” he added as if this had been part of their previous routine all along. 

John sat up in bed and turned his lamp back on. “I won’t be able to sleep with you sitting there on the floor.” 

“Your floor is comfortable and clean. I’m the one who washed it this morning.”

John shook his head fondly at the image of a jean-clad Sherlock willingly mopping a floor for him. “Well, come and sit on the bed at least if you want to talk some more.”

Sherlock made a face as if he’d been asked to call Mycroft for advice. “I have no desire to talk. That was more than I’m used to.”

“You just want to hold vigil at my bedside, then? I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock.”

“Obviously.”

“You can lie down next to me if you just need company.” 

Sherlock hesitated and finally rose to come and stand beside the bed. 

“No, it’s fine.”

Sherlock left, and John shook his head in puzzled amusement; he’d missed his eccentric flatmate, he’d missed him so much. Still, he was glad Sherlock had gone back downstairs because he honestly would not have been able to sleep with Sherlock playing night owl at his bedside.

Even so, it was nice to be cared for. It was nice to be back in 221B. The place where he had metamorphosed from a depressed ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp, few friends, and no real desire to get up in the morning, to a man who thrived on action, and lived the excitement of the unexpected a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes brought. And little unexpected occurrences—like a random visit from Sherlock—only served to accentuate all the reasons why he liked being around his friend so much. It was the surprise interruptions, the unexpected things that make it feel like home. It was as if the abnormal things were what made it feel normal. 

He never thought he’d have that again. And now they were back where they had started. 

He was filled with a feeling of simple joy and wellbeing. He wrapped the blankets tights around himself as if to keep the feeling from escaping. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

Over the next few weeks, John and Sherlock eased back into the rhythm of living together. Some routines had changed—but that was to be expected without ‘the work’ and John working at the surgery full time. 

What remained the same was the easy friendship between them. It was the way in which they just seemed to fit—the way they in which they were comfortable with each other. 

John couldn’t really pinpoint the reason why. It was as if the way they fit together was embedded in hundreds of little things. It was in the comfort found in the silences that didn’t feel strained, in the sound of Sherlock’s violin before John rolled over and settled back into sleep. It was Sherlock’s coat next to his on the back door. It was in the way Sherlock sent him funny texts—even when they were both inside the flat. It was watching telly and having arguments about who would get to rest his head on the Union-Jack pillow. It was in the way Sherlock would order takeaway for him and play his favourite violin piece when he had deduced that John had had a particularly bad day at work.

It was just having Sherlock around, easy and present and familiar and weird.

Of course, John still had to clean up after Sherlock and still had to purchase most of the groceries.

And John continued to see his therapist, Ella Thompson, once a week. There was no particular reason this time around. But John felt he needed it. He needed once a week to sit down and ask himself some questions or else he simply wouldn’t. It’s not that he was unhappy or that he liked to hear himself talk and needed to pay someone to listen, it’s just that this was a form of being accountable to himself, to check in to see if everything in his life was calibrated. 

John dated occasionally. At the moment, he was casually seeing Marie (now that she was done her GP rotation at the surgery), but his heart wasn’t in it. Yes, she did have a fun, spontaneous personality and was self-confident (no need to worry about her interacting with Sherlock—she could hold her own) but somehow, it felt like John just didn’t feel like being in a relationship with anyone at the moment. Like he would rather spend his time slowly mending the one he had with his best friend. 

Also, he couldn’t help but notice that he just had more fun spending time with his flatmate. He’d gone to a movie with Marie, but he’d spent the entire time arguing in his head with Sherlock. Pinpointing in advance what Sherlock would’ve criticized, what he would’ve needed clarification with, and what he would’ve outright yelled at! But still, it made it fun. It was like two performances. The movie and the Sherlock reaction to the movie. He always got double for his money… 

The bottom line was, Sherlock made him laugh and kept him on his toes, and all things being equal, he much preferred hanging out with his quirky flatmate.

That was certainly one thing that hadn’t changed.

But some things had.

First, there had been some small shifts in Sherlock’s overall demeanour and interactions with others. It was as if he had more patience for the human condition now that he’d experienced the full scale of emotions over the last year. Sherlock was more controlled; he didn’t call people idiots to their faces (though he couldn’t quite hide his body language sometimes. John could hear it clearly even if no words were spoken). Also, Sherlock used more judgement—knew when to blurt out deductions or knew when to blurt out the rest when they were alone together in their living room. For example, Sherlock had refrained from deducing and antagonizing the reporters during his press conference upon his return, but had later told John that Ms Mann’s hobby was writing erotica, and that she was bulimic. Thank God he hadn’t blurted that out in public.

John was oddly proud of him. As if now—without the sass—people would see what he’d seen all along, the utterly brilliant man Sherlock Holmes was. 

And Sherlock approached mealtime differently too. He still ate too little but didn’t need to be cajoled incessantly before eating. They still ate too much takeaway most nights. And, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock had started cooking dinner on Wednesdays when John’s shift ended early at the surgery. Sherlock, it turned out, was a pretty good cook, and John enjoyed watching him work in the kitchen. His movements were graceful and he liked to multi-task (John sometimes suspected he was showing off). He still liked when John complimented him.

Another thing that had changed—and John had a hard time pinpointing exactly why that made him feel so odd—was the increase in physical contact… ‘the touching’ (as John had come to label it in his mind).

John knew that he and Sherlock had a special bond—that they shared a strange but very close friendship. So it followed that ‘the touching’ would increase in frequency after the events that they had experienced. It made sense—in fact it was proven fact that after near death experience, people touched their close ones more frequently.

So, yes, it was normal that they’d want the physical contact, not only to reassure but also to communicate. 

When Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder blade while opening the door to St Bart’s, it could easily be translated into, _I have not forgotten how much you suffered._  
And when John cupped Sherlock’s elbow to guide him into a cab, he simply meant, _I’m glad to ride with you again._

But the one touch he’d had difficulty explaining to himself in those terms was ‘the feet’. Whenever they sat face to face at their work table, Sherlock writing his thesis and John completing his electronic patient charts on his laptop, Sherlock always placed his feet on top of John’s and left them there for the entirety of the time they were working. Again, the gesture was basically just a touch of reassurance, a need to express that they’d missed each other and that working at their separate desks had been lonely.

The soft pressure Sherlock’s feet exerted on his wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. John had even come to expect it and enjoy it. Sometimes, when Sherlock was particularly fidgety, his toes would dig in, and the pressure almost became massage-like. 

Whenever that happened, John was tempted to lift his feet off the floor and let Sherlock massage the arches of his feet too. 

But, wouldn’t that be too weird? And why the hell did his friend keep doing it? The touching was supposed to diminish after a while, wasn’t it? 

One day, as per Ella’s suggestion, John simply asked his flatmate. “Sherlock, why do you keep putting your feet on top of mine when we’re working?”

“Hmm…?” replied a distracted Sherlock, curls falling over his eyes has he crossed off another sentence from the journal article he was reading. “My feet are cold, so I just rest them on top of yours, for warmth.” 

_Oh. Well, there we go,_ John thought. _Cold feet_. Now he knew what to buy Sherlock for Christmas, a pair of warm slippers. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

A few weeks later, in mid-October, John woke up with a kind of excitement associated with children on Christmas morning. He literally felt the anticipation of the upcoming World Cup qualifier match loop around his stomach (and he’d bet 100£ on the game ending in a draw between England and Poland. Sure England had a better roster, but that quick Lewandowsky kid could easily even things out. And if England won, he’d gladly lose his money!)

John found his England jersey, the white one with the red cross stitched in at the top—old gift from Harry—and put it on. He planned on leaving in the early afternoon despite that the kick-off wasn’t until dinner time. He wanted a really good spot in the pub with a clear view of the telly. He’d told Greg Lestrade that he’d save him a spot if he was held back at his latest investigation—a mysterious overnight drowning of a young man in a water hazard at a local golf club. It sounded truly intriguing—right up Sherlock’s alley. Thank God the media hadn’t caught on, or else Sherlock would have been all over it, Yard ban or not. 

After he was dressed, John headed downstairs where he was greeted by Sherlock in his dressing gown and bare feet (why didn’t Sherlock just wear socks if his feet were cold?) John didn’t ask. He supposed he’d have to warm them up over breakfast again.

Sherlock glanced up from the newspaper. “Oh. Match day. How patriotic of you. You’re going to leave ridiculously early and be a bit too tipsy to properly enjoy the game by the time it starts.”

“Yes, exactly; are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

“I don’t see the point of watching adults chase a ball, only to dramatically fall on the pitch in severe pain until they are miraculously healed with a spray can.”

John smiled. Leave it to Sherlock to summarize the ‘beautiful game’ in such a way. (Though perhaps Sherlock did have a point about the irritating habit that professional footballers had of overplaying their injuries in order to get a call from the referee.) 

“No—I didn’t expect that would be something you’d like to do.”

Sherlock tilted his head in such a way that meant, _Why did you ask me, then?_

John opened the fridge and took out some orange juice. “So, what will you do while the rest of the nation is watching the football match?”

“I don’t see why you care what I do,” said Sherlock petulantly. 

Ha. Sherlock didn’t want to go watch the game, but he didn’t want John to go either. John thought back to the past twelve weeks since he’d moved back in and realized that, apart from going to the surgery and his appointments with Ella, he and Sherlock hadn’t really done anything separately. It was downright embarrassing when he returned to work on Monday mornings and realized that his colleagues now included Sherlock when they asked him about his weekend. _So what did you and Sherlock do this weekend, John?_ So, yeah, a little bit of time apart couldn’t hurt.

John headed out to the game, leaving a sulking Sherlock behind. He’d been unpleasant and abrupt the entire morning. It was really a pleasure to escape for a few hours. 

But it was no great surprise, when two hours later after he’d arrived at The Albion sports bar that he received an ‘urgent’ text from Sherlock.

_I need your assistance immediately. SH_

There was still forty-five minutes to wait before kick-off, but John wasn’t about to give up his seat to go entertain a bored Sherlock. He was slightly intoxicated, and the atmosphere in the pub was great—he wasn’t going anywhere.

_I’ll assist with whatever when I get home… after the match. Read a book if you’re bored._

The reply came mere seconds later. How the hell did Sherlock text so damn fast?

_Too wet to read out here. Need your assistance now. SH_

Too wet? John sighed. It was pouring out now. Where was Sherlock? He should just ignore him. This was a clear attempt to sabotage his plans—just a childish call for attention. But John couldn’t help himself; he needed the reassurance that Sherlock wasn’t in any kind of trouble.

_Where are you?_ He texted back, but what he really wanted to know was, _Are you safe?_

Again the reply was quick. 

_I’m outside the pub, waiting for you. Hurry, it’s raining. SH_

Needless to say, John was annoyed. Christ, couldn’t Sherlock go without him for a few hours?

John finished his Heineken in one gulp and asked Greg to make sure no one took his seat. John excused himself and made his way through the crowd and out the front door. To his left, Sherlock was waiting, half hidden in the entrance of a closed optometry office. The rain had picked up, and Sherlock was drenched, water spiralling down his fringe into his eyes.

“Okay, what the hell is so important that you had to come all the way out here?”

“Crime scene.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose; why had he assumed that Sherlock wouldn’t find out about the strange golf course drowning just because it hadn’t been in the news?

“We’re not allowed at crime scenes just yet. Remember—we need to be formally hired as consultants now and the paperwork is not ready.” 

“But, John, this is a very interesting case. I just have one hypothesis to rule out, and then I can find the culprit. You’ll be back in this pub in time to catch the second half.”

“Jesus, Sherlock—you can’t just go to a crime scene. Lestrade is not there, he’s in here,” John said turning and pointing at the pub. “He’s watching the game like the rest of the fucking nation.”

“All the more reason to go now while the crime scene is deserted, and then you can come back and tell Lestrade whom to arrest. That’s more useful to the “fucking nation” than football. Besides, England has already qualified for the World Cup. Why is this so important to you? Because you gambled away 100£?”

John didn’t bother asking Sherlock how he knew that. Really, he just wanted to go back inside to his drink, to his seat and out of the rain. He was tempted to say, _Go without me if you must,_ but of course, he didn’t mean it. They couldn’t afford the risk of Sherlock being caught and never being allowed to work for the Yard again. Also, John didn’t have it in him to send Sherlock on his own to a crime scene. Last time…

“We’ll be back in thirty minutes,” Sherlock said. “We won’t touch anything. No one will know we were there.” 

For a minute, John closed his eyes and fought for patience. He thought about the impending match and the fun atmosphere in the pub. He couldn’t give in to Sherlock. This could be a huge setback for both of them if there was a problem. He’d punched the bloody superintendent—he couldn’t afford to go and get caught sneaking unto a crime scene either. 

“No, Sherlock. No. You’re going home, and I’m going back in there,” he said pointing at The Albion emphatically.

Other people walked past them muttering about the weather and the match. No one stopped, no one noticed Sherlock Holmes. It was a rare occurrence that he didn’t have someone gaping at him after being in the public eye so extensively.

“John, how can you claim that a football game is more important than letting those poor parents know what happened to their son last night?” 

“Sherlock, don’t even bother pretending that you care about what these folks are going through. We both know you’re just being a selfish prick since you’re willing to wager our return to investigative work just to entertain yourself because you’re bored.”

John regretted the words as soon as he uttered them, but of course, it was too late. He could not take them back mid-air. 

Sherlock took two steps back, his face inscrutable, and then nodded his head once, and started walking backwards, away from John and the pub, towards the street. 

“Sherlock, no—wait!” but much to his horror, John saw a car turning as Sherlock kept backing away into the street.

_“Sherlock!”_

At the very last second, Sherlock jumped up on the curb as the tires of the Prius screeched loudly, narrowly missing hitting him.

John felt like he was very far away, like he was in a familiar dream—one where screaming Sherlock’s name had no effect whatsoever.

John couldn’t move, as if his feet were cemented to the pavement. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“John?” Sherlock said.

Finally, John snapped out of it, grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his coat, and shook him.

“Stop doing this. You’re more than just a fucking cloud of atoms, okay? You scared me shitless,” he said his voice fuelled by adrenaline and fear. “You can’t die in front of me ever again. That’s enough,” he added, his voice breaking and panicked. His heart still felt like it was beating out of his chest, and a sudden, sickening bout of vertigo washed over him. 

Sherlock had been so close—so God damn close—to being hit, to be lying on a cold wet pavement with blood all around him. 

A terrible tightness seized his throat, and a tremor shook through him at the image.

“John, _stop_.” Sherlock said. “Look, I’m perfectly alright.”

John took a deep breath and finally let go of Sherlock’s coat. He knew he was overreacting, but he didn’t care. He wanted to continue to scream at Sherlock. He wanted to make it clear that it was Sherlock’s duty to be extra vigilant when it came to his life so that John would never have to suffer his loss again.

“I was in no danger. There’s no need to be so jumpy.” 

But John was shaking. He seemed to be unable to get a grip on himself. It was as if the miss hit had accidently pushed a rewind button inside John and triggered an inflow of all the feelings associated with helplessly watching someone die in front of his eyes to the surface. 

“John, say something.”

Yes—he should say something to Sherlock. He should tell him right now that he wasn’t allowed to die ever again. He thought that had been implied when they’d renewed their friendship. That next time, it would be John’s turn to die and Sherlock’s turn to grieve. It was only fair. 

But he couldn’t formulate any words. It was just as well. They didn’t make sense. Dying wasn’t a game that friends took turns playing. Death was permanent. There were no guarantees available. Sherlock could die again even if they shook hands on it right now. 

“John, it wasn’t even that close,” Sherlock said, sounding a little bewildered. It was clear he understood what the incident had brought back to John, but he had no idea of the depth of John’s fear. 

The rain had slowed to a gentle but consistent flow, John blinked and his tears merged with the rain droplets as they slid down his face. 

Suddenly, John was embarrassed. Here he was, shaking like a lone leaf on a tree in front of a puzzled Sherlock. 

“Just—” he started, but his voice cracked slightly, so he started over. “Just go home Sherlock, okay? It’s really not worth antagonizing the Yard mere days before being allowed back to do consulting work.”

Sherlock stared at John intently but didn’t say anything before he turned and headed in the opposite direction of the pub. John watched him disappear with a pang. He still felt distraught and a little sick to his stomach. Sherlock was quite right, his reaction had been disproportionate, and he needed to put things in perspective. He squared his shoulders, and went back inside The Albion to catch the match.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Twenty minutes later (and only eight minutes after kick-off) John made up an excuse about not feeling well and left Greg to watch the Poland vs England match with the other enthusiastic patrons. 

It could happen. Sherlock could die through no fault of his own. Freak accidents happened all the time. And it wasn’t as if Sherlock was actually _immortal._

If Sherlock died accidently, where would he be then? Back in intensive grief therapy? Did he really want to hear Ella say, _The things you wanted to say John, say them now?_

It had been bad enough to live with the regret the first time…

So, basically, he was going home because he had things to say to that man.

When the cab reached his flat, he paid quickly and walked up the stairs, determined. He opened the door and almost tripped on Sherlock’s wet shoes. There were a few brown leaves still stuck to them. 

“You didn’t need to come running home to check on me. Don’t blame me for missing your precious football match,” said Sherlock from the kitchen table, eyes focused on the pipette he was holding. What exactly was he titrating? Had he sneaked unto the crime scene after all?

But John didn’t really care. Sherlock was home and breathing, and he had the chance to tell him before it was too late, as if death was looming around the corner to take him away.

Sherlock added a few drops from the pipette to the test tube he was holding in his left hand, and the clear liquid turned pink. But before Sherlock had time to write anything down, John grabbed the delicate glassware and placed it in the rack in front of Sherlock.

“I need to say something to you, and I want your full attention.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t particularly feel like being chastised again.”

“No chastising.” John pulled a chair and sat down next to Sherlock. “When you died, there were some things I regretted not telling you face to face. I—I ended up telling them to your headstone instead,” John said as he ran a hand through his hair. “And today, after you nearly got hit by that car—I, hmm, I realized that—”

“This is not necessary, John,” interrupted Sherlock.

“But that’s the thing, Sherlock. _It is._ You could die again and I would be left with… Considering I’ve been given a second chance. Considering…” John trailed off, not sure how to formulate all the jumbled thoughts in his head into words.

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair.

“I know this makes you feel uncomfortable, me too, but bear with me, okay? I need to do this.”

Sherlock nodded obediently.

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend. You know that, right?” John didn’t wait for a reply. “Alright, Christ… Okay. Before I met you--I was so lonely before I met you and—and just _getting up_ in the morning was a fucking chore. And, yeah… and all that changed when I met you. I have no sweet clue where I was headed before Baker St—but it wasn’t anywhere good.” John took a deep breath and continued. “But you came along and gave my life… you bloody came along and kicked my arse in a completely new direction, and I…and I owe you for that. And don’t think you’re a machine. I said that to your headstone, did you know that? Not too many people get a chance to say things they regretted not saying, eh? Yeah, well—I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re damn important to me and I care about you.”

_Well, that was eloquent, John. Good job._  
But Sherlock was looking at him pensively, his fingers steepled under his chin. He didn’t seem to be mocking or particularly uncomfortable about John’s mangled speech. It was as if he was piecing everything John had said in his mind.

“Well, yes, if you put it that way, I love you too,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. He then reached for his test tube and shook it once. The pink colour disappeared instantly, and Sherlock smirked. “So, it _wasn’t_ homicide. Fascinating.” 

At his words a warm feeling stole over him. Here he’d been struggling to get the words out without sounding too sentimental. But it was nice—great in fact--to know that Sherlock felt the same way about their friendship. 

Then John laughed inwardly. Jesus, he wasn’t sure what he found more comical: the way Sherlock had succinctly summarized his waffly speech into a nonchalant admission of love, or the fact that apparently, forensic chemistry was a lot more fascinating than big heart to heart talks.

Sherlock wrote down a few things in his notebook and closed it with a snap. He looked up at John and grinned, “Want to watch the rest of the match on telly?”

They smiled at each other several long seconds before John replied, “God, yes! Just let me get out of these damp clothes first.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

When John returned, Sherlock had the game on and a beer was waiting for him on the table. Wayne Rooney was getting ready to take a penalty shot right before the half-time whistle. John felt a small thrill shoot through him when Rooney’s kick flew low and hard, hitting the left-hand back corner to tie the game 1-1. He might make a lot of money if the score stayed that way.

John looked at Sherlock with a wide grin, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

In the end, it was fine to watch the match at home. More than fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting. It means a lot to me. :D
> 
> Er, sorry I took so long to post this chapter. RL got in the way. *gulps* 
> 
> FYI: The England vs Poland World Cup qualifier is real match and will take place on October 15th, 2013. I'm predicting a draw. ;D
> 
> Next chapter: Sherlock visits John's therapist, Ella Thompson, hoping to glean data about the likelihood of John wanting to start a physical relationship with him.


	8. A 'yes' or 'no' answer...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless gratitude to my utterly fantastic friend and beta, Lariope. I am so thankful for her guidance, patience, and gentle suggestions.

~~~***~~~

Sherlock had been standing at the window for twenty minutes, observing the displacement of people and objects on the street below. _Ridiculous._ Clearly, he was procrastinating. If he wanted to entertain himself with Newtonian physics and Euclidean mathematics, there were better sources than the grid provided by Baker St.

It was Thursday, 8:57 in the morning, and he had a relatively interesting case to work on but was finding it difficult to focus. By eight o’clock he’d repeated the same assay trial three times and had thought about John Watson more times than he cared to admit. He’d originally moved to the window to see if it would help him decode his mood. He needed to _think._

He wasn’t bored, and he wasn’t unhappy. If forced to verbalize it, he would have to say he was dissatisfied.

But why? 

As far as logic went, he absolutely had _no_ reason to be anything but pleased with himself. In less than half a year, he’d finished his thesis, cleared his name, had been reinstated to do consulting work, and had succeeded in getting John back in the flat. 

So why the displeasure? He had no idea. 

In the background, Sherlock heard John’s familiar footsteps behind him. Strange—he thought John had left the flat already.

“Want me to just leave this on the table for you?” John asked, holding a steaming cup of tea. “You didn’t know I was still here?” John added, his tone amused, _affectionate._ “Usually it’s the opposite. You talk to me when I’m not here.”

That was true. An anomaly. Again a sign that he was out of sorts for no good reason.

Sherlock turned and looked closely at John’s face as if the key to his mood were encrypted there. John had a nice face; malleable. It could transcribe inner thoughts into facial expressions. He could tell a lot from the movement of John’s eyes and eyebrow shift. If only he could read himself as easily. _Tell me, John, why am I unhappy?_ But John only licked his lips. Unfortunately, this particular mannerism usually meant John was about to announce something he didn’t think Sherlock wanted to hear. 

John cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m off, then. Remember, I have plans this evening. Don’t wait up,” he said.

Sherlock felt like a weight had settled on his lungs at the reminder. That was strange, since he felt he should be content with the news—he’d been hoping to have a few uninterrupted hours of lab work at the table. 

“Sherlock, did you hear me? I have plans this evening.”

Sherlock sighed and took the tea cup from the table. “Just because you feel the need to constantly repeat yourself, it doesn’t necessarily follow that _I’m_ hearing impaired.”

John shrugged. “Okay, Mr cranky-for-no-good-reason, I’m heading out. Oh, and clean up the table after you’re done if you’re going to be using it as a lab bench today.” 

Sherlock didn’t bother to grace that nagging comment with a response. At the window he continued to look at the cars moving below and mentally drew a Cartesian graph using the streets as the x and y-axis. He wished he could make 221B the origin, as the flat seemed to be the key to figuring out his discontent. 

At the door John paused and turned towards him one last time. “Are you okay, Sherlock?” he inquired. 

“I’m fine. Splendid, in fact,” Sherlock replied. Why was John so interested in his well-being if he insisted on abandoning him? 

John looked at him from head to toe with a skeptical expression. “Goodbye, then, and don’t forget to eat.”

Sherlock just waved his hand in a gesture that was part goodbye and part dismissal.

From above, he watched John walking on his way to work. John stopped abruptly (Sherlock plotted him at (+3,-1)), looked up at Sherlock, and smiled before raising his hand in a half goodbye wave. A useless gesture, really—they’d already said goodbye, hadn’t they?—but before he could think of it, he’d already waved back. 

Sherlock pivoted away from the window towards the sofa. He flopped down on it while simultaneously placing the Union Jack pillow under his head.

The early morning winter sun slanted across the living room aggressively, rendering it entirely too bright for proper thinking. Sherlock jumped back up and closed the curtain firmly before returning to his thinking position. 

He was contemplating the properties of antimony to see if he could connect the dots for his latest case, but he was distracted. He still could not pinpoint what was bothering him exactly. 

Recently, he’d accepted a private case from someone who had come to the door of 221B. It wasn’t exactly stimulating, but the case had enough need for medical knowledge that he’d accepted, hoping to secure some of John’s time in the process. 

It had worked. John had been intrigued and had done some research for him—looking over his old medical textbooks and ordering peer reviewed journal articles related to the case. 

But John also continued to work regular hours at the surgery. Plus he was seeing Marie regularly now (and he had _plans_ and wouldn’t be home until _later_.) 

Sherlock felt a twist of betrayal in his gut. 

Why was this so upsetting? Things weren’t much different than before the events of St.Bart’s, and consequently, he should be perfectly content.

He had wanted things to stay the same, to copy the life they’d had before the fall, to ensure that every variable that had made him happy was replicated. And that he and John remain friends, colleagues, and flatmates in 221B forever.

_221B forever._

A set of inferences—lattice-like—began to crystallize around that thought.

221B—there was no guarantee that he would be able to keep John here by his side indefinitely, was there? 

Yes— _that_ was the problem. The source of his discontent.

John probably didn’t plan on spending the rest of his life as Sherlock’s flatmate. Permanent co-habitation wasn’t actually a life goal amongst adults, was it? 

Before he could contemplate this line of thought further, the phone jarred Sherlock out of his musings. He peered down at the number. _Mycroft._ Annoying. _Not answering._ He waited fifteen seconds for his brother to text. And right on clue, his phone vibrated to confirm his brother’s boring predictability. Sherlock had every intention of ignoring that as well, except that the first sentence displayed caught his attention: _John has informed me that congratulatory remarks are in order_

He slid his thumb across the surface of the screen, entered his passcode, and retrieved the rest of the text. Cunning move, that: using John’s name to get him to open his texts. 

_John has informed me that congratulatory remarks are in order for completing your thesis in record time. Don’t forget the formality of defending it next month. Invite mummy. She will be ever so proud.  
Best, Mycroft. _

Ha. As if Mycroft hadn’t known before John. He fought the impulse to write a snide remark but decided the best course of action was to continue to ignore Mycroft. Sherlock deleted the text. Of course, he would defend his thesis, but there was no reason to make an event out of it. Why did Mycroft persist in fooling himself and mother that this was some kind of academic dream fulfilled?

From the sofa, he tossed his phone across the living room where it landed with a soft thump on John’s chair.

His thoughts went back to the present situation. What to do about the fact that it was unlikely that John Watson would want to remain his flatmate forever?

Often he thought of the day—three months ago—when the not-so-close accident had occurred and John had rambled on about how much their friendship meant to him. 

Sherlock had obtained enough evidence from John’s meandering speech to conclude that his friend cared about him deeply. He _wasn’t_ totally clueless when it came to these matters. He’d read enough philosophy books—though that hardly made him a philosopher like his brother deluded himself into thinking—to know the definition of love and its matching criteria. 

And, of course, the sentiment was reciprocal (obviously; he certainly would not have given up his work for anyone else or executed a stunt of such proportion just for the sake of it.)

But, apparently, romantic love trumped the friendship kind, and led to two people staying together permanently (until they divorced and started the procedure again). Really society should have friends commit to each other instead of lovers. There would be more stability that way.

So, even though there was no immediate urgency to the situation, his discontent was rooted in the fact that it was inevitable that at some point in the future John Watson would move on. 

But what could he do about it? 

Take John as a hostage? Continue to sabotage his romantic quests? _Become_ a romantic quest? 

He paused on that possibility. Was that even possible? Could they become a couple?

They were, for all intents and purposes, already in a relationship that blurred the boundaries of friendship. According to Irene Adler—who exhibited above-average intelligence and was well versed in those types of human relationships—they _were_ a couple. And Sherlock found that he couldn’t disagree. 

John had killed a man for him, and Sherlock had temporarily given up his work for John. They spent an incredible amount of time together, had a sort of silent way of communicating, and both preferred each other’s company to that of others. Wasn’t that already deeper than what most couples had? Was it enough?

_No. Not for John at least._

Sherlock need not be a genius, a philosopher, or a detective to figure out what was missing between him and John. It was flagrant. 

It was sex.

Yes, he and John had everything _but._

Therefore, the questions was, should they (could they?) change the parameters of their friendship? 

Could John have sex with him? Could he have sex with John? 

Sherlock found that he didn’t need to ponder the question for very long. It was true that sexual intercourse wasn’t something he needed or sought. He had only very limited experience in that area, but enough that his early hypothesis had been proven correct: the physical reward was not worth the hassle. But he would certainly partake if it meant keeping John by his side.

Sherlock knew that the hormones released during sexual intercourse bonded to the same opiate receptors that a ‘eureka moment’ or a cocaine hit bonded to. All things being equal, Sherlock found he’d much rather get the chemical high from a brilliant deduction than by having to involve another person’s body parts to acquire it. 

But John wasn’t just another person, was he?

For a moment, he imagined what that might be like to know John in that context. What would it be like to touch John’s body?

It seemed like it would not be too difficult.

Well, he already liked John’s feet and often found himself wishing to touch them with his hands. Also he remembered looking at John’s scar and acknowledged it would be really interesting to explore it with his fingers as well—to palpate it to his heart’s content. He’d also like to feel the underside of John’s forearm where the skin was soft and thin and press every single vertebrae down his back with the pad of his thumb. 

But what about the more intimate kind of touching? The kind that led to intercourse?

He closed his eyes and let the idea settle in his mind for a minute. He tried to picture himself and John in close proximity—kissing. He let the strange idea settle momentarily and realized that his pulse had quickened and that there was a sort of heaviness in his lower stomach—a stirring—as if a giant snake was lazily coiling on itself in the midday sun. It felt both odd and nice at the same time. 

Sherlock swallowed. So clearly, he wasn’t repulsed by the idea.

But what about John? Would he like to touch him too? Kiss him? John was obviously attracted to women, but would he make an exception for Sherlock? Would it be physically possible for him?

Sherlock needed more data. It was easy to deduce these things with someone like Irene Adler. She’d openly desired him, exhibiting physical signs so obvious even the inanimate objects in the flat could’ve picked up on them. She’d thought of it as love.

But it was different with John. He’d never seen any of the tell-tale signs of arousal in his friends despite the fact that they shared a certain intimacy that went beyond friendship (didn’t they?)

Quantitatively, there was more touching between him and John than most friends probably shared. Sherlock knew it was considered ‘normal’ that the number of tactile interactions increase after the events surrounding the fake suicide. John had seemed to touch him excessively in the first few weeks after their reunion. As a result, Sherlock had touched John more often too. John didn’t seem to mind. He’d never pushed him away, so perhaps he wouldn’t be against the idea of a physical relationship with him. 

It would be nice to know if it was remotely a possibility. Sherlock didn’t want to risk their friendship if John was never going to cross those boundaries. 

Sherlock stopped his musings again, concluding that he needed data. There was no sense in making up hypothesis after hypothesis unless they could be tested. 

What he needed to do was to gather one piece of information—was there a possibility that John would enter into a sexual relationship with him? A simple yes or no would do.

If he had to wager, he would say yes. But the stakes were too high for him to go ahead and propose a physical relationship. It might backfire and send John running away from 221B. He needed to access the answer via a different source. 

But whom? 

John would never openly share this kind of information with anyone, but there was one person who he might be able to use, one person who would perhaps be privy to this valuable data—John’s therapist, Ella Thompson. 

After all, Sherlock had deduced that she was the one who had urged John to inquire as to why Sherlock rested his feet on John’s. That meant that John shared this type of information with Ms Thompson. It followed that if John talked about this sort of thing with his therapist, she might actually be in a position to make an educated guess. 

His only chance of finding out was to visit John’s therapist in person and glean some information—a yes or no answer—before being kicked out. He was under no illusion that Ella Thompson could (or would) divulge anything to him. However, he could deduce it. Easily. 

All he needed was to ask the question, and in that few seconds of reaction time, she might give something away. He could decode silent gestures and micro-expressions easily—eyebrow fluctuations, eye shifts, length of reaction time, tilt of head, hand gestures, colouring, breathing, and press of lips, could all be interpreted into a yes or no answer.

Granted, this wasn’t the most empirical data he could collect—but it would have to do. 

Sherlock sprang up from the sofa with a plan in mind.

He dialed Ella Thompson’s office and asked for an appointment for John Watson. He stressed that it wasn’t an emergency, but made his voice shake a bit to make it sound otherwise. He would appreciate any openings she might have today or any cancellations.

“Hold on, Mr Watson,” said the receptionist kindly. “Okay,” she said a few seconds later, “how about at 12h30 today? It would have to be a shorter appointment than usual, though.”

“Yes, perfect. _I only need five seconds._ Thank you,” said Sherlock in his best John voice.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Ella Thompson’s office was located in an elegant two story brick building tucked between tall maple trees. Greenery in central London meant expensive rent and exorbitant patient fees (disability must pay this for John.) He pushed open the door, entered swiftly, and hid behind the corner smoothly like a thief about to rob the premises. Once the receptionist left for her lunch break, he slid past the reception area and found the door to John’s therapist’s office ajar. He glided in and closed the door, satisfied. 

He surveyed the room carefully; directly in front of him, by the panoramic windows, stood two chairs with expensive leather coverings, to his right was a large desk surrounded by filled bookshelves made of fir. The walls were adorned with various framed university degrees—including, of course, a clinical psychology degree with a speciality in post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Sherlock chose the chair to his left, turned it to face the door, and sat to wait for Ella Thompson. 

A few minutes later, at exactly 12h30, he heard her footsteps approaching the office (therapists were always more punctual than physicians), and he stood before she opened the door.

Sherlock spoke as soon as she entered.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, John Watson’s flatmate. Tell me, would John have a physical relationship with me? A yes or no answer would suffice.”

As soon as the words were out, he started collecting data. 

First her eyes widened (no conclusion could be extrapolated from that—a normal reaction in a surprising situation), and then she frowned. 

He repeated the question. “Would John have sex with me?”

Her mouth hung open briefly (surprise realization), her eyes squinted (thoughtful analysis), and a trace of a dimple appeared on her right cheek (amusement?) 

Sherlock was unable to make a conclusion. (Why amusement?) Perhaps he needed to re-phrase the question.

Ella Thompson cocked her head to one side and looked at him with anticipation. Then she turned abruptly (brilliant move on her part) and walked to her desk to drop off the folder—John’s—she was carrying. When she faced him again, her face was a neutral mask (well done). 

“Mr Holmes,” she said in a composed voice. “As you well know, I can’t divulge any information about my patients. I imagine you thought you could trick me into answering you?”

“No. I just thought I would deduce an answer from your initial reaction.”

“And did you?”

Not really. But Sherlock could tell she had no intention of kicking him out. 

In fact, she seemed to want to hear more. She was looking at him with open _curiosity._

Of course, she was curious! _Idiot,_ he berated himself. Anyone would be—but especially the therapist who had treated one of the main players in a major tabloid story last year. He and John had been in the news, rumours had circulated about them right from the beginning of their association, and now she was privy to some information no one else knew. 

Ella Thompson looked at her watch. “Well, since I cut my lunch break in half for this appointment, I’m going to go ahead and charge you for this visit. Sit down, Mr Holmes.” Ha. She obviously wanted to know more. 

This was proceeding better than anticipated. He could possibly get more concrete data this way. The longer she talked, the more chances she would trip on her words—commit a verbal gaffe of sorts—and accidently reveal something she wished to keep hidden. In fact, ‘slips of the tongue’ were inevitable. For every thousand words spoken, one or two errors were made. Considering the average pace of speech was a hundred and fifty words per minute, a slip was bound to occur every seven minutes of continuous talk. 

She should’ve really kicked him out as soon as possible. She was overestimating herself and underestimating his power of deduction. Hadn’t John stressed how proficient he was to her? 

“Sherlock will do,” he said as he sat down in the chair she was pointing at. He crossed his legs and smiled. Really, he had not anticipated having fun with this little quest for pertinent information. This was reminiscent of his younger days. He’d spent the greater part of his teenage years playing games with the therapists he’d been forced to see. 

Ella Thompson sat across from him and folded her hands on her lap. “I understand that you’re… I don’t know if this is the right word… _resourceful_ —”

“It’s the right word,” he interrupted. 

A shadow of a smile travelled over her lips. “Well, resourceful or not, most people don’t need to hijack their friend’s therapist when they wish to change the parameters of their friendship.”

Surely she knew he wasn’t ‘most people’. Lord God, what did John talk about when he was in here? But Sherlock kept his mouth shut. Let her talk and tie a rope around her own neck.

“There are more transparent methods by which to go about it… Sherlock,” Ella Thompson continued. She seemed to consider her next words carefully. “Why couldn’t you ask your friend that same ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question? Is it because you’re unconsciously afraid of being rejected?”

Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes. This line of questioning was tedious and clichéd. Really? Unconscious fear of being rejected? She could do better than that. But again, Sherlock said nothing. He looked down at his watch, feigning sadness as if she had hit the mark with her substandard psychoanalysis.

“Have you had another heart to heart talk with your friend since the near car accident? Perhaps it’s your turn to initiate a conversation this time.”

Ha. This was officially the first slip—indicating what sort of thing John had revealed to her.

Ella Thompson fidgeted, as if realizing her mistake. This was definitely worth the money she was charging him.

She stood up. “May I give you a word of advice before you leave?” she inquired. She was getting rid of him.

“By all means,” he replied. Sherlock needed to make their meeting last longer. Should he deduce her? He’d gathered enough interesting facts about Ella Thompson for her to realize he knew a significant number of her secrets. 

“When a person wants to get to know someone in a different context, they start by making small changes.” 

Sherlock was suddenly intrigued. “Such as?” he said instead of putting her on the spot with his deductions.

She’d practically told him that John would be open to change in their relationship if he initiated it. And now she would even tell him _how_? This was more than he had ever hoped to glean from the therapist.

Sherlock looked up expectantly. Ella Thompson was searching for neutral terminology that would not incriminate her or John but seemed to realize it was too late for that. 

Finally she coughed and said, “I don’t know, change the way you do things. Make him think of you in a different light. Share anecdotes that are not work related. Find out more about the person—perhaps surprise him with a picnic, share stories about your childhood. Introduce him to your parents. Things like that… ”

Sherlock didn’t reply but stood and smiled, satisfied. Not only he had an answer, but now he also had a plan—a concrete set of actions to undertake in order for John to experience a paradigm shift about the nature of their relationship.

He needed to blur the lines, let things progress naturally, change the context, and be more transparent. Easy. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

Sherlock decided to apply Ella Thompson’s first suggestion the very next day. He hadn’t seen John since yesterday morning, even though he had come home to sleep and had not stayed with Marie (a relief).

He prepared a lunch for John (a thick sliced turkey sandwich with lettuce, goat cheese, and sundried tomatoes). He also made one for himself. John needed to see him in a different context after all. Then he packed a picnic blanket (an old checkered plaid quilt he found in John’s closet). On his way to the surgery, he purchased two coffees and texted John and asked him to meet him outside. Then, he waited for him in the small park across the street.

Sherlock observed John walking out of his building and looking left and right, apparently searching for him on the sidewalk. Sherlock raised his hand, holding a coffee, and John crossed the street briskly, pulling on his gloves at the same time.

“What’s up? New information for the case?”

“No. I’ve brought you lunch. Do you wish to sit on the ground or the bench?”

“Er—what’s going on?”

“As I said, I’ve brought you lunch. It’s a picnic.” Goodness—wasn’t that evident? 

“Do we really have to eat outside?”

“Picnics are usually out of doors, I believe.”

“Okay, fair enough, but why are we having a picnic in mid-January?” 

Oh. Sherlock hadn’t factored in that variable. But it was true, people preferred to eat out of doors during the summer months, not the winter ones. Sherlock liked the opposite, especially on a today like today. Cool, yet sunny—the air fresh and crisp. And the park was empty. Wasn’t that preferable?

Sherlock pointed at the long wooden bench and said, “We could sit there or go back inside if you really prefer.”

John frowned. “Is that my blanket, there?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. Perhaps he should’ve thought this out more carefully. 

But then John smiled and said, “Let’s sit on the bench. The fresh air will do me good after being shut up with everyone’s germs for the last three hours.”

John picked up the blanket from the bench and draped it over the seat. They sat side by side on the frigid bench, facing south, the radiant midday sun warming their faces. 

“Is this an experiment of some sort?” asked John. 

Sherlock shook his head no. Wearing black leather gloves, Sherlock opened the large paper bag he had brought and unwrapped a sandwich for John and handed it over to him. 

“Thanks,” John said. He still looked bewildered.

Sherlock watched as John struggled to open his mouth wide enough to accommodate the first bite.

“Mmmm… that's good,” he praised through his first mouthful.

Sherlock was unsure what to say. He wanted John to see him in a different context, so it wouldn’t do to point out his lack of table manners.

“Mmmm… “ he seconded. It sounded forced even to his own ear. 

John swallowed and asked, “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“A picnic,” he replied. Goodness, Did John think he'd carried his blanket around town just for the fun of it?

“Yes, exactly. And from my point of view, that’s a little fishy, you see? You don’t even take the time to eat when you’re busy with a case, and now not only you’re eating, but you’re preparing food for me. That’s far from the norm. Therefore, what’s going on?”

Ha. So John realized that this was outside their norm. Good.

“Nothing extraordinary. I thought you wanted me to eat lunch, so I decided to go ahead and fix myself something, and since the inconvenience of preparing a meal had already occurred, it wasn’t much of an effort to prepare a sandwich for you as well.”

John looked at him sideways, skeptical. Then he shrugged and kept on eating. 

Sherlock observed that John’s nose and the tip of his ears were turning red, and he wondered if he had made a mistake in scheduling this outdoor lunch on one of the coldest days they’d had so far this winter. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to wait for milder temperatures and a greener park. But now that Sherlock had set his mind on making John see him in a new light, he felt a sense of urgency, as if somehow waiting an extra eight weeks to execute his plan was unfeasible.

Sherlock watched as John took a long sip of his coffee and then leaned back leisurely on the bench and closed his eyes.

“You know what I like about you, Sherlock? The fact that I never know what to expect with you. I’m actually really enjoying this.” 

Indeed, John seemed relaxed and content—his legs were stretched out in front of him, his booted feet crossed at the ankles comfortably, while his interlaced gloved fingers held on to his coffee on top of his belly. 

Had John had his eyes opened, he might’ve noticed Sherlock’s cheeks redden (which had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the John’s quiet praise and apparent joy at spending time with him.)

Sherlock thought it was time to introduce a conversation—as per Ella Thompson’s suggestion—that wasn’t work related. He chose question 2a and b from the list he’d prepared the night before.

“So, John, tell me about your first cadaver when you were in medical school. Did you have to share it?”

John opened his eyes and frowned. “Why? I thought this wasn’t about the case,” he said, waving his hand towards the now empty paper bag and the park in general.

Sherlock swallowed. He’d chosen the wrong question. He was no good at this. “It’s not,” he said, holding back the word _idiot._ “I just thought that there’s a significant amount of data…” he paused, looking for better (more natural) wording. “You probably have several personal stories I don’t know about. And now I’d like to hear them.”

A small, surprised laugh escaped from John. There was a certain light in his eyes that could only be interpreted as both happy and bewildered.

“I’ll never figure out how that brain of yours works. Why on the coldest day you make me lunch and decide that _now_ is a good time to hear about med school,” John said, his tone full of affection. He took another sip of coffee and continued. “Alright, I’ll tell you about med school. So, my first cadaver, eh?—well, it was a ninety year old male, died of natural causes. Very healthy—you know, for a dead man. Hardly any fat on his organs, so it was quite easy to locate all the proper anatomy—especially the circulatory system. And yes, I had to share. We were randomly paired, and that’s actually how I met Mike Stamford. He was my anatomy lab partner. Christ, the guy could talk…”

Sherlock finished his coffee and listened attentively to John’s anecdotes of medical school. He was a good storyteller, putting emphasis on details he knew Sherlock would appreciate. 

After a while, John paused and emptied the rest of his coffee on the ground. “Not sure if I want to hear about _your_ first cadaver,” he laughed, “but I clearly remember _our_ first one together. Little did I know at the time that it would actually become _addictive_ to find dead bodies and watch you do your thing.”

Sherlock felt like he’d inhaled a few lungfuls of helium. This was probably the single most exhilarating thing anyone had ever said to him.

His stomach seemed to do a funny thing when John stopped talking and looked at him directly and smiled. Their studied each other openly, and for some mysterious reason, Sherlock wished he could pause time and freeze the moment.

_I want more, John._

The realization was swift as the plunge of a meteor—he wasn’t just seeking an endless flatshare with John Watson, was he? 

The unhappiness, the unspecified discontent, the bouts of jealousy, and the plan for them to become intimate were not only about keeping John in 221B forever.

It was more.

Too much in fact.

A sort of panic crept up on him like the rising tide. Suddenly, he felt like he needed to go.

Sherlock stood. “Invigorating tale, John. Thank you,” he forced the words out, hoping they sounded amicable. “Your next patient is early and already waiting for you,” he added to make it sound like this was the reason he was ending their picnic. (He didn’t know that for a fact, but it was a good guess. The next patient on John’s long list of appointments was Mrs Elsie Putnam. The name Elsie indicated an elderly person, and members of that generation arrived to all appointments an average of twenty-four minutes early.)

He turned and looked at John and wondered which he was more afraid of: his newfound realization or losing John. 

After a thoughtful pause, John stood too. “Thanks for lunch. You know, I was only kidding when I said I didn’t want to hear about your first cadaver. It’ll be your turn next time to share a story,” John said, the sun beating so brightly on his face that it seemed his hair and eyelashes were white. 

In that moment, Sherlock found he could picture John as he would be, when time instead of the sun had turned his hair white. To his own surprise, he did not find the image off-putting, but instead felt an unfamiliar yearning for the future.

Perhaps, he mused after John had left, he should go forward with his plan and use Ella Thompson’s other suggestion— _introduce him to your parents_ —and arrange for John and Mummy to finally meet.

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update! 
> 
> I'm fully aware that it's unrealistic that John's therapist would ever breach doctor/patient confidentiality this way, but decided to bend the rules a bit anyway. :D
> 
> Next chapter: John meets Mummy in a very unexpected way...


	9. Meeting Mrs Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Lariope for going above and beyond the call of beta duty! Your help is much appreciated, my dear friend.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~***~~~

“Doctor John. Hamish.Watson,” enunciated John’s new patient with great presicion, her eyes focused intently on his framed medical degree hanging on the back wall. 

“Yes,” replied John without expanding further. Older patients sometimes had a tendency to use their medical appointments to fill in voids in their lives—children not visiting often enough, friends moving to nursing home facilities and the like. Most times, John would let the appointment go slightly off track—it usually helped with doctor/patient relationship in the long run (even if he had to hear the same tales of grand-kids studying biology to perhaps become a doctor someday too…) 

But John didn’t feel like humouring anyone today. He just wanted to go home. It had started to snow—not a lot, but enough to create a bit of chaos with the traffic. Plus, Sherlock had mentioned that he wouldn’t mind watching another _Murdoch Mysteries_ episode from the latest season, which had just come out on DVD. Frankly, it was a bit surprising to John that Sherlock had even suggested it—but then again, Sherlock had been acting out of the norm. Just yesterday he’d asked John about his favourite hobby as a child and had then inquired about which book he was currently reading. John found he quite enjoyed this slight shift in their friendship it made things feel a bit more equitable somehow.

He sincerely hoped this appointment wasn’t going to turn out to be a complicated visit.

“So, what brings you in to the surgery today Mrs—” John stopped and checked the name on the file he was holding.

Holmes, Marjorie. DOB 05/08/1937

_Holmes_

He paused and looked closely at the woman who was facing away from him. There was an air about her…

“Yes, _that_ Mrs Holmes. I believe you are well acquainted with both of my sons?” 

The woman turned around. Jesus, of course it was Sherlock’s mother!

The way in which she sat in the chair like it was a throne reminded him instantly of the posh demeanor of the Holmes brothers. Also, she had the same high cheekbones and intelligent almond-shaped eyes as his friend.

Mrs Holmes was elegant and appeared younger than her seventy-six years. She was tall and slightly heavy set in the waist area. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, her grey hair pulled back in some sort of fancy hair clip, and she wore expensive looking clothes and footwear. 

“Ha. Mrs Holmes,” he said trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Lovely to meet you,” he said extending his hand towards her. 

She smiled briefly and gave him an intensive assessment—her eyes scanning his face all the way down to his loafers--that reminded John of the first time he had met Sherlock at St. Bart’s.

“Please call me Marjorie, John,” she said. “If I may call you John, that is. So, you’re Sherlock’s blogger. You know, I enjoy reading the accounts of your adventures. You’re a good, solid writer; however, you might consider taking up writing classes in your free time.”

Mrs Holmes smiled, and her eyes slanted up at the corners like Sherlock’s, letting John know she was teasing.

“Well, I don’t have much free time as it turns out,” he replied. “Your son keeps me busy.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” said Mrs Holmes. “I am pleased to finally meet you face to face. I’ve heard so many delightful things in your favour. Now, Mycroft tells me you used to have a psychosomatic limp and that Sherlock ‘cured’ you. He also informs me that you’re a very good influence on Sherlock. I suspect he’s a little jealous. He likes to think of himself as the main guiding force in his little brother’s life. So unfortunate that Sherlock continues with his constant childish animosity.”

“Well, Mycroft can be quite trying at times,” said John in Sherlock’s defense.

Mrs Holmes smiled. “Such a novelty. I usually hear that very comment about my youngest son and not my oldest.”

“Happy to oblige,” said John. 

“You do realize that deep down, Mycroft is just looking out for his brother?” 

John nodded. “Is that why he sent you? Was he hoping you would convince me to share information about Sherlock?” 

Mrs Holmes shook her head. “Oh—it wasn’t Mycroft who sent me. Sherlock arranged the entire appointment.” John’s eyes widened. “Believe me, I was as surprised as you are,” she added.

“Do you know why Sherlock made this appointment for you?” he asked. “Don’t misunderstand, I’m happy you’re here—just wondering… ” _why he wouldn’t tell me._

Sherlock’s mother seemed to be searching for the right words. “Most of the time parents have to read between the lines when it comes to their children. With Sherlock, it seems one must read between every single word. He said he wanted a doctor to take a look at this ugly thing,” she said as she unbuttoned a delicate pearl button and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a reddish discoloration of the skin on her forearm. “But of course, this is nothing; he just wanted for us to meet. The question, John, is why?”

John really had no idea why Sherlock had sent his mother to the surgery at this particular point in their lives. Maybe he was genuinely concerned about his mother’s health (though John knew Mycroft probably had a team of physicians at his mother’s disposal—so that wasn’t likely). John wondered if this was a test of some sort—and if so, a test for whom?

“Well, we’ll just have to ask him next time see we see him, won’t we?”

Mrs Holmes made a face as if John had asked her to clean the bathrooms in the surgery. “Do you think this is the kind of information my son would ever share? Sherlock doesn’t explain himself.” 

“No, he doesn’t—not directly anyway… but that doesn’t mean we can’t figure out his intention. Here, why don’t I text him and see what he says.”

Mrs Holmes smiled. “That’s unnecessary. Frankly, the reasons are not important, because now that I have you to myself, I am quite looking forward to our little chat.”

“I’m at work,” was all he could think of saying.

“I believe I’m your last patient of the day, so that gives you a bit more time, doesn’t it, John?” 

Just like the other two Holmes, Mummy didn’t seem perturbed in the least with rearranging John’s schedule to suit her own agenda. John wasn’t about to protest, though; he was genuinely curious to learn more about Sherlock’s mother.

“Yes, I suppose. But, at some point, I’ll have to take a look at your arm nonetheless.”

“If you must,” she replied with a wave of her hand as if her health were of little importance. “So, what exactly has Sherlock told you about me?”

_Not much at all._

But John couldn’t say that. He searched his memory for tidbits of information. All he could think of was what Mycroft and Sherlock had said about Christmas dinners, and arguments over who, between the two brothers, upset Mummy the most.

Hardly the stuff a mother wanted to hear.

“Er—well…”

“He’s told you nothing,” cut in Mrs Holmes crisply, sounding amused. But John thought her eyes looked sad.

“Right,” John said. No use pretending otherwise. “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not troubled in the least. It’s my own doing. You see, Sherlock was brought up this way. We’re not people who will overshare details of our personal lives to others, though it seems to be in vogue these days. We’re not, what you would call demonstrative in the least. In fact, I encouraged it.” said Marjorie Holmes. “Therefore, it’s no great surprise that he has not shared anything with you.”

To John it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than he.

“But I see your point of view. It must seem like we have no interest in each other’s lives. Perhaps you think poorly of me?” she continued.

“I don’t know you, Mrs Holmes.”

‘Well, in my defense,” she said, as if John had been criticizing her parenting skills, “I was raised that way myself. I had only hoped I had done a slightly better job than the previous generation. And then, Sherlock wasn’t an easy child. Oh—all that exuberance, curiosity and energy. He was like an overwound toy that never stopped.” 

The image made John smile inside. It was easy to picture a young Sherlock, wild curls bouncing as he spun like a top through some formal living room in the family home. 

Mrs Holmes seemed to be lost in thought. “We may have made a mistake with Sherlock. While we fully appreciated his intelligence, we did not think all that animated passion was necessary. We believed that by reacting less to his enthusiasm, it would diminish his undesirable behaviours, such as talking out of turn and blurting out random conclusions here and there. We just wanted him to exhibit proper self-control like his older brother. The French have a saying ‘seulement les sots s’emportent”--only idiots get carried away by their emotions. We knew our son was extremely gifted, but we wished to harness it towards more academic pursuits, consequently we withdrew our attention and only acknowledged positive behaviours. I believe it backfired. Sherlock internalized it as indifference.” 

As Mrs Holmes continued to talk about how, of course, Sherlock had never been physically reprimanded--just ignored—for his own good, John imagined his friend as a bright young boy sitting at the dining room table and proudly blurting out some awkward deduction, eyes bright and looking for approval, only to be met with resounding silence. He supposed he would’ve eventually learned to say nothing—to keep it in somehow. 

Jesus, no wonder he’d been so surprised at John’s accolades when they’d first met. 

“How was he in school?” John wanted to know. He’d tried to get Sherlock to talk about his school days, but he’d cleverly avoided answering directly. 

Mrs. Holmes gave a short laugh. “He was a challenge, of course. He had this terrible habit of correcting his teachers by making a loud buzzing noise—as if in a game show of some sort—whenever he felt they were wrong. Oh, the phone calls I would receive about that!” She shook her head at the memory. John couldn’t help but smirk picturing a young arrogant know-it-all Sherlock correcting the faculty like a buzzer whenever they made a mistake. 

“Oh, there’s more, I was constantly called because of defiance and talking back. He would debate everything and talk circles around the administration until everyone was confused about what had been agreed upon as a disciplinary action. I still have a headache thinking about it.”

“Expelled a few times, was he?”

“Yes. And that was before the stealing started taking place.”

“Stealing?”

“Well, Sherlock wouldn’t have used the term. _Relocating_ was the word he used, I believe. It was a game he invented to challenge himself. He’d take keys and wallets and hide them and make these elaborate puzzles related to the subject matter that particular teacher taught. Really, it’s surprising he didn’t turn out to be a criminal.” 

John frowned. Sherlock had just been bored in school.

“I can see what you are thinking, John. You are as transparent as my sons led me to believe. Don’t you think Mycroft wasn’t bored out of his mind too? Sherlock would be the first to say that he was unmanageable in those days. At one point he even diagnosed himself as a sociopath—”

Suddenly, John’s phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. 

“Don’t you need to answer that?”

John looked down at his phone and shook his head no when he saw it was Sherlock texting him. “It’s Sherlock—probably wants me to pick something up on the way home.”

“In that case, you had better answer, or he’ll disturb us incessantly until you do.”

“True enough,” acknowledged John.

John retrieved the phone from his lab coat pocket and entered his passcode quickly.

_Are you still with Mummy? SH_

Mrs Holmes was staring at him with open curiosity, but he replied to Sherlock immediately anyway. 

_Yes, we’re still chatting. Thanks for the heads up, btw_. 

He put his phone down without providing further details of their encounter. Let Sherlock wonder…

And just on cue, another text from Sherlock beeped. 

_As long as you’re ‘chatting,’ you might as well inform Mummy that my dissertation defense is on the 16th of next month at 15h00. SH_

Ha, was this the reason why Sherlock had arranged for John and Mummy to meet—so John would be the one to invite his mother? 

John read Sherlock’s text to Mrs Holmes.

“I wondered if he was going to invite me.”

John grinned. Mrs Holmes seemed pleased.

“John, how is my son, really?”

“You don’t talk that often, do you?” And he thought he had a dysfunctional family. “He’s fine. It’s not in the press, but he’s been re-instated to do consulting work with Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, that much was reported to me,” she said. “I’m pleased for him—that’s not always been the case—and of course, that didn’t help our relationship. I felt there was so much more he could be—that he had the potential to make his mark in the world. To have his name in history.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” John said with the hint of a smile. “Sherlock Holmes will be remembered in future generations.”

“That’s not what I meant. Sherlock is a genius. His gift could’ve been applied to any academic field to help him succeed.”

“Being a consulting detective makes him happy. More than happy—it makes him feel alive. Maybe that’s what success is, no?”

Mrs Holmes seemed doubtful, but finally conceded, “I understand that he’s good at what he does?”

John was struck by how much he wanted Mrs Holmes to fully grasp just how great of a consulting detective her son was. 

“Oh, you should see him when he’s at a crime scene… when he’s deducing. The way he thinks—all the things he can conclude from just seemingly unrelated pieces of data and clever observations. He’s amazing,” he corrected himself. “It’s amazing.” 

Mrs Holmes looked at him shrewdly.

“His work is everything to him,” John added.

“Yes, and he gave it all up for you. I’ve never known him to do such a thing before. Certainly he wouldn’t have done so for me.”

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from Mycroft. Any other time John would’ve sighed, but on this occasion, he was glad to have the conservation interrupted. 

_I take it that Sherlock has taken this opportunity to ask you if you could invite Mother to his thesis defense? MH_

_Yes. I’ve already invited her._

_Good. MH_

And before he even had time to put his phone back in his pocket, another text from Mycroft buzzed in.

_Will you tell Mummy that I send her my regards? I trust that she is well? Her ankle is no longer bothering her?_

“Okay, I’m starting to feel like a family mediator. You lot have really poor communication skills.”

“Yes, I’m afraid none of us want to make the first step.” 

“Mycroft wants to know if you’re well and if your ankle is still bothering you.”

“Oh, the ankle was twelve weeks ago! Yes—that’s how long since we’ve talked. I didn’t even see them over the Christmas holidays.”

John wasn’t quite sure what to say, but he promised himself that he would call his own mother soon. He’d skipped their regular Sunday afternoon call because he hadn’t felt like hearing his mum’s disappointment at the news that he’d ended things with yet another girlfriend. 

There was another interruption in their conversation—this time from the front office. “Excuse me,” John said and answered the phone. “Hello, yes?”

“It’s Julie up front. I was just wondering how much longer you’re going to need. All the other doctors have left, you see, and the traffic… ”

“You can go ahead and leave, Julie; I’ll close the surgery. Be careful on the roads,” John said and hung up the phone. 

Mrs Holmes looked at her watch. “Oh, I suppose, I’ve taken enough of your time, John. I should be on my way. I believe Mycroft has sent a car for me to take me back to my hotel.”

“Just a moment, Mrs Holmes. I need to see your arm again. I can’t let you leave without examining it properly. You did make a medical appointment…”

“ _I_ didn’t, and it’s just a simple age spot--but let’s humour Sherlock anyway.” She undid the delicate pearl button again and pulled up her sleeve reluctantly. John reached down and gently brought her arm up onto the examination table. 

The round skin growth was approximately 3mm, translucent, with what seemed to be an ulcerated centre. He passed a finger over the small, firm nodule. 

“Does this feel tender?”

“Somewhat. But that might be because you’re pressing on it.” 

John smiled and opened a drawer. He pulled out a pen and wrote a few notes in the chart.

“How long have you had this?”

“I don’t know. The boys noticed it just after they visited me at the family home.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Let’s see—yes, over a year ago--when Sherlock… made the headlines.” 

John swallowed. So, Sherlock and Mycroft had gone to see their mother before the story of the fake suicide hit the tabloids. Christ, it would’ve been nice to have been included… but John found that the old bitterness had faded and that he was now able to distance himself from the unpleasant memories. 

“There is nothing in the world that compares to losing a child,” said Sherlock’s mother as if reading his thoughts.

“Yes, I’m glad you were spared that pain,” he said and found that he meant it.

“For what it’s worth, I’m positive my sons would not have let you suffer had it not been necessary.”

John just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

John’s phone buzzed again, and again he was glad for the distraction. 

_John, you do not have to spend time with my mother. SH_

“Looks like Sherlock is getting bored at home,” John said before texting Sherlock back. 

_I just examined your mother’s arm. Shall I say ‘hello’ from you?_

He did feel bad for Mrs Holmes. She looked so lonely.

Sherlock replied with two quick successive texts. 

_Why? She’ll know it’s because you suggested it. SH_  
 _But go ahead if you must. SH_

John shook his head, amused. “Sherlock says ‘Hello’.”

“Only because you made him do it, I suspect.”

John shrugged. “Shall I tell him you’re looking forward to seeing him soon?”

Marjorie Holmes nodded her head. “It’s true—but he won’t believe it.”

_Your mother says she’s looking forward to seeing you soon._

_This is tedious. Just order a screening test for her arm and come home. SH_

“What did he reply?”

“Tedious—” John began, and Mrs Holmes smiled, “—and he wants me to order a screening diagnostic test for the ulceration on your arm.”

Mrs Holmes pursed her lips and frowned. “The test is not necessary. In fact, it’s a waste of time and tax payer’s money. It’s nothing but a slight skin discoloration and does not fit the profile of melanoma.”

“I know. I’m not worried about melanoma. But research has shown that 15% of skin ulcerations have the potential to develop into nodular basal cell carcinoma. I think it’s a significant enough number to warrant further investigation, don’t you think?”

“Why do doctors always feel the need to make their point by quoting random statistics?”

“It’s not random. These stats actually come from studies published in medical journals.”

Marjorie Holmes rolled her eyes (a common occurrence for Holmes family, apparently) and continued to argue her point. “I was reading an interesting article recently written by Dr. Mark Spooner. He found that there is only a fifty percent chance that the results of any randomly chosen scientific paper are reliable, and he concluded that most research findings cannot be trusted.”

“Then,” replied John calmly, “I suppose that would include _his_ findings as well.” 

At that, Mrs Holmes threw back her head and laughed.

“Why, you _are_ perfect for my son!”

“I’m not sure if that’s the conclusion I would draw. More like I see where Sherlock gets his need to always have the last word.”

John wrote a requisition for the biopsy and sent it in via Mrs Holmes’ electronic chart. 

They looked at each other, smiling.

“Do you love my son, John?” she enquired curiously. 

The question seemed to come out of nowhere.

“I’m not sure why you ask—he’s my best friend; of course I do,” he said evenly.

“I ask because it seems you have devoted so much of your life to him, to his work. As you said, you have little free time, and what time you do have seems to involve running errands for my son and recording his exploits. And then... after all that happened... it could not have been easy for you, John. And yet you seem to have found it in yourself to forgive him.” She looked pensive for a moment. “Did you know that in French, the words ‘friend,’ ‘love,’ and ‘soul,’ share a common root? _Amare_ —to love.” 

John shook his head and stood. “I think you’re just trying to change the subject. I am ordering a biopsy for this, Mrs Holmes.” 

“Well, think about it anyway, John.” She stood and patted his forearm awkwardly and then admitted, “I don’t remember the last time I even touched either one of my sons.”

“I don’t think it’s too late for such a thing. You’ll be seeing Sherlock soon. ”

“Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched. Will he be a changed man after he defends his thesis?”

“No, perhaps not. But if you’d care to come back to the flat then you might get to spend more time with him. It’s where he’s most at ease. Besides, it’s a small flat—you might bump into him.”

“Is that so?” she said. Her tone was teasing. “Then perhaps I will join you there. I guess that will be the next time we see each other, John?”

“Yeah—nice try. You’re still getting a biopsy and I’m going to insist that you come back for a follow-up appointment before then.”

Mrs Holmes sighed amicably. “Very well, but only because I like you. You have a horrid waiting room.”

John’s phone buzzed yet again.

 _Anthea is here to bring mother back to her hotel. I see you managed to convince Mummy to have a biopsy done. Well done, John. MH_

John gave a short laugh. How had Mycroft found out about the requisition order so quickly? 

“Mycroft is pleased that you’ve finally agreed to have a screening test done,” John said as he took the long burgundy coat off the hook and helped Sherlock’s mother into it.

“Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, Marjorie.” 

~~~***~~~

Later on that night, John found he was not tired in the least. Perhaps the culprit was the afternoon coffee he’d had or perhaps the visit from Sherlock’s mother had him thinking too much. 

Christ, that’d been a surprise! But he found that he liked Mrs Holmes very much. It had been fascinating to see bits of Sherlock in his mother. She was an interesting woman and he hoped they would get a chance to talk again in a more pleasant venue than his examination room at the surgery.

Oddly enough, Sherlock had been tight lipped when he’d gotten home— _you’re late, and if we’re going to watch the Murdoch Mysteries episode you wanted me to see, we need to start it right now_ (as if it were John who had scheduled an impromptu appointment with his mother and had changed their schedule). They’d watched only half of the episode before Sherlock had pronounced it beyond coma-inducing and had gone to his room petulantly. 

If John didn’t know any better, he’d say Sherlock had been jealous of the time John had spent with Mummy. 

John didn’t feel like watching the rest of the show by himself, so instead he put a fire on, made a hot chocolate, and resumed reading his novel. 

An hour later, he found he still wasn’t tired, and the living room was a mess. He figured he might as well tidy up the tornado of papers now that Sherlock was done with the final edit of his thesis (he’d taken over the living room with books, journals, and essays he’d sent for from foreign universities). He made small piles for Sherlock to sort through and then reached for the overflowing recycling bin under the table. 

John was finally able to lift it from under the table but dropped it again when a piece of paper with his own name on it in Sherlock’s familiar script fell to the ground. The paper had been crumbled into a ball at one point and was filled with several crossed off sentences. 

_Dedication- To my friend and colleague, John Watson._  
 _Dedicated to J. Watson for his unwavering faith and_  
 _This thesis work is dedicated to my friend John, who has been a constant source of_  
 _To my friend JW—who always believed and supported my_  
 _I dedicate this dissertation to Dr J. Watson—he knows why._

John held the paper tight in his hands as he walked to his chair mesmerized. In the soft glow provided by the light of the fire, John read and re-read the words on the page. A strange feeling, both warm and tight, seemed to settle just above his diaphragm. He thought of Sherlock—banned from consulting with the Yard and alone in the flat—trying to put into words what their friendship meant to him. 

John pressed his lips and shook his head fondly. After all that had happened, after willingly calling himself a fraud, after giving up the ‘work’, the wanker had dedicated his dratted thesis to him.

John swallowed, trying to stop the prickling behind his eyes. The written proof that Sherlock cared, the confirmation that it wasn’t one sided was… 

The thought went unfinished in his head and John was suddenly filled with an overwhelming wave of longing for his flatmate. 

Without thinking about it, as if fuelled by the warm, swelling feeling within, he stood and went to Sherlock’s bedroom. At the door, he paused and listened for sounds, but there were none. He then proceeded to open the door softly. On the floor lay _The Central Dogma_ , the book Sherlock had taken to bed with him. His flatmate was sleeping soundly, curled up on his side, one arm cradling his spare pillow tightly. 

John smiled at Sherlock’s sleeping form and closed the door with a soft click. But then, he stood there, hand on the handle, unable to move. All he wanted to do was to go back in the room and talk with Sherlock—or maybe just sit and watch him sleep. 

Why would he want to do such a thing? _To my friend John Watson…_

The answer came to him as softly as a whisper. 

_Ami... âme… aimer…_

Mrs Holmes had seen it. _Do you love my son, John?_

_I do Mrs Holmes. I love him. I am stupidly, dreadfully in love with him._

With that realization, trepidation sedimented at the bottom of his heart. What good could come out of this? 

He sighed, let go of the door handle, and finally moved away from Sherlock’s door and went to sit in his chair. How in the world had he not realized that his feelings for his flatmate were more than friendship, more than anything he’d ever felt for anyone in his life? How in the bloody hell was he supposed to make sense of all this? 

He was _in_ love with Sherlock. He gave a short laugh and picked up the discarded dedication paper once more. He ran his fingers over the words before folding the page, and placing it in his pocket, and heading off to bed.

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It is much appreciated. :D 
> 
> Next chapter: John and Sherlock discuss sex and the importance of the weather forecast...


	10. We Should...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thank you to my dearest Lariope for betaing this chapter during what will undoubtedly be remembered as the craziest November ever. *hugs*
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~***~~~

Sherlock opened his eyes as soon as he heard his bedroom door close behind John.

That was John’s second visit this week, and both times John had entered his room late at night after a double shift at the surgery.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock knew exactly what these visits meant without having to analyse them systematically—but he couldn’t help it. It was the only way he knew how to manage the strange swirling feeling inside (like his stomach had become some sort of centrifuge machine for sentiments.)

He reviewed the events which had occurred during this past week and came to three obvious conclusions…

One, John was visiting him when he was certain Sherlock was asleep, therefore John did not want him to know that he was there. (But he knew, of course, he did.) 

Two, John’s visits had begun after meeting Mummy. Consequently, something during said meeting had triggered the behaviour. 

And last, the visits served no purpose (such as John returning an item, medically ensuring Sherlock’s safety, or John doing an experiment on him). Conclusion, the visits were necessary to John only.

There was also the very significant fact that John could barely look at him during the day. He averted his eyes and not-so-subtly pretended to be busy whenever Sherlock forced the issue. He’d even started taking on more shifts at the surgery. And interestingly enough, there was a positive correlation between how long John worked with the length of time John stood quietly in his room watching him at night. 

Sherlock pulled the blanket tighter around his body and let the odd warmth of his final conclusion spread around him like exothermic dispersion. 

John had feelings for him. John did not want Sherlock to deduce those feelings. Those feelings were more than platonic. John visited him at night when he felt it was the safest to do so. 

The nice cozy feeling didn’t last long before being replaced by the swirling feeling again.

The truth was, he had no idea how to proceed from this point on. It had been fine up to now—methodically following Ella Thompson’s advice as if the entire business of shifting the parameters of their friendship were a science experiment of sorts.

Sherlock had wanted to set things in motion, and he’d succeeded ( _An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an external force._ )

But what next? How did he go from John seeing him in a different context to them engaging in sexual intercourse? 

He had no idea how these things went. He had not been involved with anyone in twenty odd years (And he wasn’t even sure if the time he’d spent with Victor even classified as ‘involvement’.) 

Needless to say, relationships were not his area of expertise, and frankly, neither were they John’s.

In fact, John was probably worse at relationships than he was, decided Sherlock. At least Sherlock hadn’t even been trying for years to get it right. 

And now John wanted to be with him but did not seem to realize that they were on the same page. 

How was that even possible? Sherlock felt like he was hemorrhaging clues all over the place. If John had picked up on any of it, he would know Sherlock was not only amenable to shifting their relationship—but that he was the one who had actually worked hard to cause the shift. 

As far as he was concerned, the next move should be John’s, but it seemed he was going to have to make the first step again. ( _The shortest distance between two points is a straight line_ ). What would happen if John never realized that he was interested in that type of a relationship? What if John was too stupid to put the pieces together and moved on with someone else? 

The thought of losing John was unbearable.

Maybe he would just ask John if he wanted to have sex and be done with it. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, forcing his hands to stay behind his head instead of running them over the empty half of his bed. Loneliness was a thing he’d not only accepted a long time ago, but something he’d craved. 

Until now.

Because now he had John in his life and… 

Well, John liked him. John came to watch him sleep.

Sherlock turned on his side and looked at the empty spot next to him. Slowly, he placed the palm of his hand over the surface and wondered what it would be like to share it with John. But the thought set off the centrifuge in his stomach again. And just like before, he switched it off by analysing the situation empirically; how much space would John’s body mass would take up in the bed? Would he need to purchase a larger blanket to accommodate the increase in surface area as a result of having two bodies there? 

Sherlock relaxed as he imagined calculating John’s surface area (minus the head; unless John liked to pull the blanket over his head.) How? Oh. Yes--simple, if John slept on his side, he could trace an imaginary curve over his outline and then just use a simple derivative formula. It wouldn’t be accurate—but really, it wouldn’t need to be. He just needed an estimate to see if the blanket could cover them both. Maybe providing a second blanket would be the easiest solution. _Boring._

John obviously liked to be warm (why else would he choose to wear jumpers?) He needed to make sure John was comfortable. What if he could use his hand as a unit of measurement to calculate John’s surface area. _Brilliant._ If he touched every single epidermis cell, not only would he get his answer but he would also keep John warm! (friction causes heat).

Once again, Sherlock looked at the empty half of the bed and placed his hand there, hoping that John would soon fill that space.

It wasn’t until he was almost asleep that he admitted to himself that he’d never really craved loneliness that much.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Upstairs, John closed the door and sat on his bed, dropping his head in his hands in disbelief. Christ! He was stalking his own flatmate now. Classy.

He couldn’t believe that he had actually entered Sherlock’s room in the middle of the bloody night (twice!) just to look at him. That’s all he’d wanted—to watch Sherlock unguarded, to let himself enjoy the presence of the man who was constantly on his mind without having to hide anything. 

Despite the darkness in Sherlock’s room, he’d still been able to see Sherlock’s sleeping form in the bed. His face was relaxed, his eyes closed, his curls spread on his pillow, and his arms loosely hugging the extra pillow, and John had thought, _He’s beautiful._ He supposed men weren’t supposed to be beautiful, but there was no better word for the way he looked. 

John sighed. Here he was, fully awake in his room at 3AM, pondering the physical beauty of his flatmate because it was the only time of day at which it seemed safe to do so. Christ, that just went to show how far gone he was for Sherlock… because, really, he’d seen his flatmate in his pyjamas and curled on his side plenty of time and not thought of him that way.

Really, it should come has no surprise that what he felt for Sherlock had become more than mere friendship. Just like in every other aspect of their life together Sherlock had pushed the boundaries. In fact, Sherlock always seemed to take more and more. 

The truth was, John was overwhelmed with the intensity of what Sherlock meant to him. Sometimes the feeling was so strong, like there was some invisible force imploding within, and all he wanted to do was to physically grab Sherlock and touch him and just let everything that had built up escape. He desperately wanted Sherlock—in every way possible. 

John dropped on his back on the bed, starring at the ceiling, and pondering how the hell any of this had happened.

 _You’re not even wired this way…_  
 _Christ, you’d make the exception for him, wouldn’t you?_  
 _Yes, in a fucking heartbeat, but that’s beside the point. Sherlock is married to his work._  
 _But he has sacrificed the work for you, hasn’t he?_  
 _Yes, well, **he’s** not wired that way. I don’t think he’s wired at all._  
 _He touches you an awful lot, though—doesn’t he?_  
 _I don’t know, I don’t know—maybe he does. It doesn’t mean anything to him though._

John shook his head. There was no need to debate the issue in his mind; it wouldn’t change a thing. Christ, he loved Sherlock. Every minute, he loved him. And yes, yes he would take the mad bastard to bed if he could and smash through that last boundary.

But reality was, he’d never get to.

John sighed and rolled over unto the empty half of his bed. Jesus, he was only forty years old! Had he lived half of his life yet? Had he forty more years to sleep in this bed alone just because he had fallen in love with someone so unattainable? It wasn’t bloody fair, he thought. That’s not how it was supposed to happen.

Jesus! Hadn’t that dratted fortune teller he’d been dragged to in his younger days said he would get married and have two kids by the time he was in his mid-forties? She’d gotten everything else right—his medical career and getting shot in a foreign land—but had conveniently forgot to mention that the love of his life would be his brilliant male flatmate and best friend. A little warning would’ve been nice! (Though he doubted he would have been able to stay away from Sherlock even if he had wanted to.)

But there was nothing he could do now except take on more double shifts until things faded a bit and he was able to hide how he felt around Sherlock again. 

But how long would that take? He thought about how Sherlock made him feel alive, as if he were John’s own private supply of endorphins, thought about how he made him laugh, how he made him feel, period. It didn’t seem likely he’d be over him anytime soon. 

Maybe he should just tell Sherlock: ‘Sherlock, I’m in love with you. Don’t worry, it doesn’t need to affect you. You can still solve your cases and have me as a best friend. I’ll work it out. I’ll make it go away somehow. We’ll be fine, but I just wanted to let you know that’s why I’m not around much these days.’ 

But perhaps Sherlock already knew. Maybe that was the reason why _he_ escaped to his room so early to sleep now. He was avoiding John. 

The thought made John feel as empty as the other half of his bed. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

A few days later, just before leaving for work, John found Sherlock furiously typing on his laptop in their living room. John’s smiled fondly at the sight of his friend, but then he turned towards the kitchen in a hurry. It wouldn’t do to have Sherlock deduce him at this point. He was doing so well.

“I think we should,” said Sherlock suddenly. John stopped in his tracks and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“We should…?” he prompted.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, as if John had just made a suggestion and now Sherlock was agreeing to it. 

John frowned, trying to recall what he had last said to Sherlock. Oh, yeah, purchasing a new microwave because the one they had… 

‘No, not the microwave,” said Sherlock without looking up from his laptop screen. 

What else had he suggested to Sherlock recently? Tea with Mummy?

“I’ve already replied to the tea question.”

“Alright. What should we do, Sherlock? Enlighten me.” 

There was nothing Sherlock liked better than to demonstrate how he had connected the dots to make it look like he was reading minds. 

But, this time, there was no explanation forthcoming, so John continued on his way to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water to make tea. It was odd that Sherlock had dropped the subject.

“We should what?” John asked again, curious.

It took a few seconds before Sherlock replied. “What’s been seemingly on your mind non-stop for five days.”

John barked out a small laugh. “Trust me, you have no idea what I’ve been thinking about.”

Sherlock sighed. “Haven’t I just proven that I do, in fact, have ‘an idea’ about what goes on in your head.”

_Go ahead and tell me how miserable I am because I now desire you and it’s ruining everything._

John swallowed. “Okay, fine. What have I been thinking about?”

Again, without looking up from his laptop, Sherlock answered, “You’ve been thinking about me in a different context and contemplating the idea of having sexual intercourse with me.”

_Christ!_

“And you think _we should_?” He blurted out even though he was pretty sure that wasn’t the part he should be focusing on. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “It’s reciprocal,” he added vaguely waving his hand between the two of them. His cheeks were pink and his eyes glued to the computer screen. 

John gulped and felt his thought processes come to a standstill. Now he knew how the proverbial deer in the headlight felt when faced with an uncoming vehicle. John couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak; he couldn’t do anything, it seemed. 

Had Sherlock seriously said that they should have sex and that it was mutual? John felt as if he had missed something—like someone had fast forwarded the movie while he was fetching a beer from the fridge or something.

He must have misunderstood. “What are you saying exactly?” 

“I’m saying that I want the same things you do—a shift in our relationship leading to intercourse.”

Jesus, Jesus... so, he’d heard correctly. But that didn’t mean he understood any better.

And the bloody wanker was still starring at his computer, obviously avoiding eye contact. 

“Sherlock, you brought it up, so could you at least turn off the darn thing and look at me so we can talk about this?”

“There’s not much to talk about, John. I want the same thing you want, but I’m hardly going to start reciting sonnets.”

“Sherlock…” he warned.

Sherlock humphed and closed his laptop loudly before turning and giving John his not-so-sincere smile.

“You have my full attention regarding what I already know and don’t really need to discuss.” 

John took a deep breath and stared hard at Sherlock. “Don’t do this, please.”

Sherlock stood and walked into the kitchen, randomly lifting pieces of glass apparatus from the counter and lifting them up to his eyes for inspection. “I’ve deduced that you’re amenable to changing the parameters of our friendship--as I am. From the way you have shifted your feet five different times, and the way you have coloured from your neck to your ears, it doesn’t seem to me that you enjoy discussing it either. Don’t people usually just go ahead with these kinds of things?”

“Christ, this is different. None of this makes sense. Why do you want to, er… be with me in that context all of a sudden? What are you up to now?” John didn’t mean to be so suspicious… but hell, this was Sherlock… 

Sherlock then leaned against the counter and pulled out his phone from his pocket and started scrolling through his screen at a quick pace. John fought for composure. “Sherlock, say something.” 

Sherlock tapped one last time on his phone before replying. “Wednesday. They’re forecasting record breaking low temperatures. -16C but it will feel more like -22C with the wind chill.”

John dropped his head in his hands. _The fucking weather forecast? Really?_

“So now we’re going to talk about the weather. Nice.”

“John, these unusual temperatures are relevant to our current situation.”

“But we’re talking about sex!”

“Very good, John. You’ve finally said it out loud.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock. Can we have a normal conversation?”

“If you wanted normal, you would’ve moved out ages ago.”

True. But this was different. He knew Sherlock, and he knew he wouldn’t be lightly spewing off sexual offers casually if there wasn’t more underneath it all. John felt like his mind was spinning just like a roulette wheel; he had no idea which of these facts— _it’s reciprocal, record breaking temperatures, sex with Sherlock, the current situation_ —he wanted to focus on.

“The link between all these facts?” Sherlock inquired, correctly interpreting John’s flabbergasted expression.

“Yes—if it’s not too much trouble.”

Sherlock stood and grabbed the calendar off the wall and pivoted back into his seat eagerly as if producing clever evidence for a case.

“You know the blue glove case we’re working on? Well, the culprit likes to stalk his chosen victim in a stolen car. I have deduced on which day he will attack next. Clever—but simple. Fibonacci sequence with the dates. His next assault is scheduled for Wednesday. And as it turns out, Wednesday is the day on which the weather takes a turn for the worst. On days when the temperature is abnormally low, not too many cars start, and the ones that do manage to start are left running idle in the driveway until the interior warms up. If we set up a running car in the neighbourhood, we’ll be able to catch him red-handed.”

“Maybe he’ll skip a day if it’s that cold.” John had no idea why he was getting drawn into the case, but he knew Sherlock would somehow bring it all together at the end. 

“No—he’s smart. He’ll know that there will be fewer witnesses around on such a day. That means we can catch him Wednesday morning, and that also means there is a very small chance—I think .04%--that another case would require my expertise that day. Statistics show that Wednesday night has a very low crime rate; statistics also show there is a correlation between low temps and criminal activity. Combine the two—the unusual frigid temperatures on a Wednesday night—and it makes it very unlikely that I would be needed elsewhere, see?”

“Yes—sorta—but it doesn’t make sense. Are you seriously telling me that you’ve _scheduled_ sex with _me_ because it’s going to be _cold_ on Wednesday? Is there even a reason why?”

“There _is_ a reason, John. It’s the same as yours. And the sex is scheduled with respect to my availability—mentally and physically—so you can have my undivided attention that night,” explained Sherlock earnestly. Then he looked at John with wide eyes—as if he was unsure if that was a good or bad thing to say. 

John stared back wondering again how in the hell they’d gone from working on a case together to planning intercourse. Had Sherlock made a wrong deduction? Did he think John only wanted sex? Was that what he meant by reciprocal? 

But there was something honest behind Sherlock’s eyes. Like he wanted John to know everything that was buried within without having to explain. John knew that this was more than likely foreign territory for Sherlock. If there were a chance, however small, that Sherlock felt the same way… he needed to excavate it out of him.

John stood, emptied his lukewarm tea in the sink, and poured himself a new cup. He held his tea cup with both hands, letting the heat burn his skin a bit, while absorbing what Sherlock had just said—trying to pinpoint exactly what he wanted Sherlock to understand.

“Sherlock, you’re going to have to talk to me—really talk to me—and stop hiding behind consulting work and forensic lingo. There is no systematic way of talking about this sort of stuff,” John said, keeping his voice soft.

There was a pause, and Sherlock said nothing.

John took a deep breath. “Okay, let me go first. You’ve obviously discovered that how I think about you has changed. I’ve known that we share a strong bond for a long time. And yes—we’ve talked about it before, but as far as I know, we were only sharing what we meant to each other in terms of friendship. I never realized I was… it was more until recently.”

“Last Friday.”

“Yes, last Friday. Hm, it wasn’t until I had that particular… er, insight that I let myself see you… that way.”

“Look who’s hiding behind language now.”

“Fine. In plain English then,” John said, his heart beating wildly in his throat. “Here’s the thing: I don’t just care about you, I’m in love with you, and I don’t know why the “in” changes everything, but it does.” 

John paused and then continued, “So, yeah, I didn’t want you to see, hence the visits at night. That’s how you guessed I was attracted to you, wasn’t it? You weren’t really sleeping?”

“No, I wasn’t, and yes, that’s how I knew for sure.”

John sighed. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow that you have to… that you have to sleep with me now. That’s not how it works.”

“But I already told you it was reciprocal.”

“Which part is reciprocal, Sherlock?”

“All the parts, including the ‘in’ preceding the word love.”

John smiled at the unorthodox declaration. “But Sherlock, I’ve never seen any evidence.”

“Well, you never do.”

John crossed his arms. “Okay, lay it out for me then.” 

Sherlock looked like he would rather play a round of golf with Anderson than talk about his feelings with John. 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “You’re very important to me, John. I realized that very early on in our partnership. And I missed you tremendously when… I had to go away.”

Sherlock paused and swallowed. “When I returned, having you around made the tediousness of the thesis and the waiting to be reinstated bearable. And even though I didn’t have the work… I found that I could be happy just being with you.”

John felt that odd warmth spread through him, remembering Sherlock’s thesis dedication.

“I knew then that I wanted you to stay with me permanently,” Sherlock said. He was looking at his feet.

“Sherlock, did you suggest we sleep together so I would stay with you?” inquired John, although he really didn’t want to know.

“Yes, originally. It seemed like the logical solution. Everybody thought we were a couple and… I knew you cared about me.”

“But, Sher—”

“Let me finish,” interrupted Sherlock. “Once I started thinking about it, I discovered that I very much wanted you to be with you in that context too. And once I had enough proof that you would be amenable, I suggested ‘we should’. I didn’t think all this talking would be necessary, though.” 

Sherlock smiled, and his eyes told John everything he needed to know. Sherlock did care in a way that went beyond friendship... the thought made John feel as warm as the cup he was holding.

“If we want to shift our friendship, Sherlock, we don’t really need to start with sex. Maybe we could start with dating or something…”

“When was the last time you had an eye examination, John?”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock let out a long, laborious sigh (probably the longest sigh in the history of humankind if Anthropologists ever bothered recording such things.)

“You’re blind. We’ve been dating for the past two weeks.”

“We have?”

“Think.”

It was true that the way Sherlock had behaved around him these last few weeks had been out of the ordinary. They’d been closer than ever, and Sherlock had taken a sudden interest in finding out more personal stuff about John. It had started that day on the cold bench park when Sherlock…

“Oh God. Do you mean when we ate in the park…”

“Yes, it was a picnic—I brought a blanket. What else?”

“Oh, did you take that very boring cheating wife case so we would have to do a long stakeout together—I mean, you would consider that a date, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, because I got you to tell me all these anecdotes about your childhood—interesting, and don’t get used to it by the way,” said Sherlock, his eyes amused.

“And you started watching movies with me and cooking me dinner, too.”

“I also introduced you to my mother.”

_Bloody hell! Only Sherlock would make a medical appointment for his mum as a means of introducing them.”_

“So that’s what this was all about! I thought that you just wanted to have her visit so I would be the one to ask her to go to her dissertation.”

“Just a pleasant by-product,” Sherlock said before taking the calendar in his hands again. “So, I can keep Wednesday night sex on the schedule?”

This was insane. Who actually pencilled in when they were going to have sex?

But John couldn’t minimize the importance of having Sherlock’s full attention. Lord God, it _would_ be awful if Sherlock suddenly ran off in the middle of things... 

And perhaps waiting few days wasn’t a bad idea. They could both adjust to the shift and make sure it was what they both wanted… 

“Yes,” he finally replied. “Leave it on the calendar.”

The surrealness of the situation caught up to John. He looked at their calendar and shook his head in disbelief at the word “sex” written just below ‘pay utilities’. Hell, wasn’t it just this morning—just less than an hour ago, in fact—that John had been in his room pondering what to do about his attraction to Sherlock, and now the problem was not only solved but conveniently marked on the calendar for easy viewing access in case he _forgot?_

“You are stark, raving mad, do you know that?” John half-laughed in disbelief.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, smiling. And then both of them were laughing.

After a moment, after the giggles had died down and the effervescent-like feeling within had somewhat subsided, John said firmly, “We still need to talk about this, Sherlock.”

“Must we?”

“We still have a few things to discuss—like our sexual past,” John took a deep breath and continued. “Sherlock, in the years I’ve known you’ve never… er… at the palace, the time with the sheet… Mycroft said… ”

“You’re trying to ask me if I’m a virgin.”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Define virgin.”

“Someone who’s never had sexual intercourse?”

“Hmm. Define sexual intercourse.”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake—just answer the damn question. Have you ever had sex before?”

“Why? It doesn’t change anything.”

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t change anything. But, I still want to know if you’ve done this before, or if it’s going to be a case of blind leading the blind.”

“Blind leading the blind—really, John? You’ve had plenty of sex.”

“Well, you know... I’ve never with …”

“Of course, I know. Does it really matter?”

No, no it didn’t. And if Sherlock needed definitions to figure out if he’d had sex or not, then he probably hadn’t. At least not properly. Jesus Christ! The thought of shagging Sherlock in a way that left no doubt as to whether he was a virgin or not made John’s ears buzz.

Seriously, _seriously _, by the time Thursday morning rolled around Sherlock would have a very clear answer—no definition needed.__

John took a deep breath. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter."

Sherlock beamed. “So it’s settled, then?” 

“Not quite. There’s still important questions to ask, er… what about—” 

"Sexually transmitted diseases?” Sherlock interrupted. “One of your past girlfriend, the annoying one with a J name, insisted that you be tested before you two had intercourse. You had a panel done—all negative, of course. And you never did end up sleeping with her--or anyone else afterwards, for that matter. Unless I’m wrong, which is highly unlikely.”

"No, you’re right, but what about you? With the drug use and all…”

“I’m clean. You can have written proof if you want,” Sherlock paused and his expression turned serious for a moment. “But I do have something to divulge--a medical condition of sorts. And consequently, a request.”

John frowned. “Go on,” he said.

“I suffer from hypergalethesia. The upper pelvis area mostly.”

Hypergalethesia? He hadn’t heard that terminology in a long time and it took a moment for John to get what Sherlock was trying to say. Then he started giggling. “Are you telling me you’re _ticklish_?”

“I have a nervous waist,” Sherlock clarified. “I would appreciate if you did not touch me in that general area.”

John tried hard not to laugh again, but he couldn’t help it. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes was ticklish! 

“Is that why you wear that long coat of yours, even in the summer? So no one will accidently trigger your hypergalethesia?” he teased. Sherlock ticklish--it was too funny. 

Sherlock shook his head. “What clever humour, John. Perhaps I’ll need to keep it on Wednesday night?”

John sobered up. “Fine. I’ll avoid your waist,” he said and looked at him square in the eyes before adding softly, “That’s not where I was planning on touching you anyway."

John didn’t think it was possible, but Sherlock blushed pink all the way up from his neck to his cheeks. “Er, good. Thanks.”

John knew it was beyond bizarre to go about starting an intimate relationship this way—but hell, Sherlock was right, if he’d wanted normal, he’d be with Marie right looking for a house in the suburbs.

It still felt surreal that he’d get to sleep with this outrageously amazing man. Christ! They’d never even had real intimate contact before. But that wasn’t quite true was it? When Sherlock had touched his exit wound with feathery fingers, it had felt quite intimate. Which reminded him… 

“Er, as long as we’re sharing requests, I have one as well…”

Sherlock looked surprised. He probably thought he had deduced everything there was to know about John.

“You’ve shown excessive interest in my exit wound in the past. I don’t want you to become hyper-focused on it. I mean, it’s, er, our first time together… it would be nice.. Maybe you should avoid touching it; I don’t really want to be reminded it’s there.”

“That’s not fair!” exclaimed Sherlock. “I should be allowed to John. I’ve waited…”

John laughed. “If I can’t touch your waist…”

“But I have a medical condition!”

“You’re ticklish, and I’m paranoid. It’s fair.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed, his lip all pouty. “But maybe after?” he added hopefully.

John chuckled, he couldn’t help it. “Not before Thursday.”

He looked at his watch. Damn, it was almost 9AM. “Well, I’ve got to go to work now… ” his voice trailed. He was unsure how to end this utterly unbelievable conversation. “So, are we still on if the temperature is -15C instead of -16C on Wednesday?” he joked.

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll text you constant updates of the forecast.”

Sherlock was flirting with him. John smiled and let the pleasant giddy feeling spread in his lower belly. “I’ve never wished for frigid temperatures before.”

“Nor I. I’m greatly anticipating the arrival of Wednesday.” Sherlock said and then added, "Evening". It came out all breathless. 

“Well, good.” John could feel his cheeks warming up.

They stood and looked at each other. Sherlock had really stunning eyes—like the colour of the lakes in the Swiss Alps, and John was mesmerized by their intensity. 

He really wanted to touch Sherlock. Did they really have to wait three days? 

But the decision was taken out of his hands when he heard the distinctive sounds of Mrs Hudson making her way up the stairs.

They continued to look at each other as if their eyes could speak for them. 

_Wednesday?_  
 _Yes, Wednesday._

And just before the door opened, John reached an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him down to whisper in his ear, “Now people will have a real reason to talk.” 

“Indeed. And they’ll finally be right.”

“To say the least.”

“The very least.” 

Jesus! It was going to be a long three days, John thought as Mrs Hudson knocked on their door.

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for those of you still reading! Your thoughts and comments are much appreciated. The last two chapters should come quickly.


	11. The Days in Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to my fabulous beta and friend, Lariope.  
> Any remaining mistakes are mine (I added almost 1000 words just before posting this. ;D)

Sherlock opened the first drawer of his dresser and dropped the entire contents—namely his sock index—on his bedroom floor. It had been a while since he’d bothered classifying the garments (another unfortunate consequence of being dead for a year) and he needed to incorporate the five new pairs he had received at Christmas--three identical charcoal coloured pairs from Mrs Hudson and two black pairs with minuscule white skulls from Molly Hooper (it was a good thing he had a category labelled ‘utterly useless’). 

Indexing was a mundane task which, oddly enough, he liked to do when he needed to think about… _feelings._ His brother—thinking himself witty—had once hypothesized that this was because Sherlock attached as much importance to his feet as to sentiments. 

Sherlock could not deny that he _did_ pay special attention to feet (and consequently socks). That being said, the two (feet and feelings) did complement each other rather well, he argued with his brother in his mind.

He provided the Mycroft in his head with two simple proofs: 

First of all, feet are one of the sweatiest parts of the body; socks help to absorb the sweat and move it to parts of the foot where it might evaporate more easily. Therefore, without socks, there would be an increase in the amount of negative feelings due to bad odours.

Secondly, feet provide valuable data about feelings. Because feet are the farthest from the brain, the grey matter has less control over them than it does over hands or facial expressions. Individuals are less aware of where their feet are facing. The direction in which the feet point tells the observer where they wish to go.

All in all, feet and socks were much more important than umbrellas. 

Satisfied with his final argument, Sherlock went back to the task of indexing socks. He sat on the floor, crossed-legged, and unfolded every bundle, laying them out side by side to inspect them for damage before he classified them again by colour, function, and degree of wear. 

As he relaxed, he let his mind forget about his brother and wander back to the marvel that was John Watson.

John, he mused as he continued triaging his socks, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Better than oxygen and water and cigarettes and drugs and as good as an intricate puzzle. Even Mummy—who on principle seemed to dislike anything Sherlock did—adored John. Sherlock was sure that if John were to inform Mummy that he was taking Sherlock to break into the National Library and burn every single book in there, she would answer “Oh, John, you have such a good influence on Sherlock!” (He could not underestimate the value of this observation… he might be able to get away with a lot more where Mummy was concerned if he just hinted that John was behind the decision. “It was John who suggested we skip the next fifteen Christmas dinners.”)

Oddly, Sherlock was pleased that his mother appreciated John’s presence in his life, and as in every other aspect of his life, John made things easier, better--including communicating with Mummy.

Sherlock recalled John’s openly pleased expression when he’d thanked him for inviting his mother to his defence. And later when he’d confirmed with Mummy on the telephone, John had looked at him with a mixture of pride and tenderness that had made something in his belly flutter. Every time he thought of John, he wanted to draw out that particular expression on his face (it was so very rare that anything he did inspired pride). 

He wanted to give something in return to John. Perhaps he could purchase a gift and even wrap it. Not something he would like, but something only John would appreciate (and would not even be useful to Sherlock). Was that what one did when they were internally saturated with feelings? When their insides felt like an imbedded sponge that hung heavy with an intoxicating cocktail of love neurotransmitters? 

Sherlock was pleased that he’d taken the direct approach (despite the tedious discussion that had ensued) and propositioned John for intercourse. It was still hard to believe that John had missed the fact that Sherlock’s feelings were reciprocal. Such were the dangers of excessive subtlety, he supposed. 

Well, the important thing was, they were now on the same page. So much so that for the last two days the atmosphere in 221B now seemed pervasive with tension. The good kind of tension—the kind that pressed low in your gut and left your ears warm… even hours later. 

And the strange part was, they hadn’t even touched yet—not even a brush of fingers—yet the attraction between them continually skittered across the air like static. It was a deliciously novel experience for Sherlock to have this potent mix of biochemistry and physics dancing on the surface of his skin, entering through his pores, and filling his entire being with potential energy. 

Even though there were no convenient way to measure it, he was pretty confident that John was equally affected. John was so obvious!

Sherlock had felt extraordinarily witty over breakfast this morning and had been rewarded with John’s flashing eyes and wide grin. They’d laughed, they’d stood close, and had shared heated looks. And then John had said, his voice all smooth and throaty, “Sherlock, if you really want to wait ‘til Wednesday, then I’m going to have to stay away from you.”

Sherlock knew that initially John had meant it to be humorous, as an attempt to ease the tension, but oh, the way he’d said it--like Sherlock’s mere proximity was a _struggle_. And after, John had even blushed! (All his doing. Who knew he would excel at this kind of chemistry as well?!) In that moment, Sherlock was sure he’d never seen anyone as handsome as John Watson. He’d stared and stared at him, filled with this odd, overwhelming, swelling out feeling that made him want to reach out and touch John everywhere… urgently. (Now he understood desire a bit better.) At that, the tension had risen again, despite the fact that John had moved away and broken eye contact. But it had been apparent to Sherlock that the desire was _quite_ mutual.

At the memory, Sherlock’s gut did another flip. He closed his eyes and let the images of John (and their tantalizing internal battle not to touch) reignite the potent chemicals within. Following the laws of thermodynamics, the warm tingly sensation dispersed everywhere, filling his veins and arteries with a pleasant warm pressure. Sherlock dropped the socks he’d just paired and touched himself through his pyjama bottoms. For a few seconds, he just let his palm cradle the hardness, enjoying the pleasurable warm feeling and then pushing against it firmly. The pulsing of his heart increased steadily and seemed to relocate just beneath his palm. He kept his hand there—resisting the urge to move it, just letting the pins and needles spread until it felt like his lower half was filled with buzzing static particles.  
He stayed that way for a while, legs spread wide open on his bedroom floor, his hand on his erection and his mind all on John. He did not wish to finish, wanting to store the feeling for later, but his hand slid underneath the elastic of his pyjama bottoms nonetheless, and wrapped around his cock firmly. And when he thought of John, all flushed and so obviously aroused, his hand moved faster, firmer, until the tingly friction mixed with the John images and set off his climax unexpectedly.

Immediately, Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise—astonished that he’d taken it this far this quick. He stood quickly, disrupting the pile of grey socks to his left, and reached for some tissue from his bedside table to clean himself. 

Sherlock was gifted at compartmentalization, and forced his mind back to the blue glove case. Yes—he was filled with anticipation for the events to take place tomorrow evening (apparently, quite so) but he preferred not to be distracted by it. It wouldn’t do to be basking in a cocktail dopamines when he had a major case to wrap the morning. 

Also, last night, he had even accepted an insignificant case (in terms of complexity) to keep his mind on the work and had agreed to help Angelo decipher the mysterious rise on his electricity bill (simple: landlord had added an electrical panel and had rewired his flat to that panel to save money). Sherlock thought it would be a grand idea to take John to Angelo’s tonight on a date and therefore kill two birds with one stone: eliminate John’s problem of not wanting to touch Sherlock and explain what was going on to Angelo at the same time. (He was nothing if not efficient in his wooing efforts.)

He picked up the socks he had dropped on the floor and noticed he’d paired a navy sock with a black one. He flipped them once and then unfolded them again. Clearly, John was too distracting for Sherlock to even try a mundane task like indexing. Perhaps John would be pleased to know that he had trumped Sherlock’s sock index. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

John was glad when he finally entered the flat in the late afternoon (after eight hours at the surgery and then two minutes of distracted chatting with Mrs Hudson downstairs). He unzipped his coat and scanned the flat for Sherlock, but his flatmate (yeah, keep calling him that) was nowhere in sight. “Sherlock!?” he called out as he went to hang up on his jacket on the hook behind the door. He was disproportionately disappointed when he saw that Sherlock’s coat wasn’t there. He’d thought of him all day, and he was just looking forward to seeing him again. 

Sherlock had been too damn _adorable_ over breakfast this morning, _trying_ to flirt with him. He’d been talking a mile a minute, making random deductions about whatnot and casting sideways looks towards John to see if he was impressed. Sherlock was practically beaming whenever John smiled. It was as if every time he made a deduction, he was really asking, _Do you love me?_ And every time John smiled in awe, Sherlock interpreted it as, _Yes, I do._ (He supposed it was an accurate enough description.) John had felt such a strong surge of affection and desire for him—it was hard to contain.

Then they’d laughed (for no particular reason that John could remember), and Sherlock had come over and stood so very close to him. They’d stared at each other, and John had looked at Sherlock’s handsome features and had let himself appreciate them in a brand new way. Soon, he would be able to touch that face and savour those lips. Which one would he start with? Both—God help him, _both_. 

It was then he’d warned Sherlock that if they wanted to wait until Wednesday, he’d have to stay far away from him. He’d meant to make it sound as a joke, but it had come out all shaky and rough. Christ! He’d probably blushed all the way up to his ears. 

It wasn’t that he was embarrassed per se, it was just that, yeah, Sherlock was still, well, Sherlock, his flatmate and his best friend, and it was still a bit of an adjustment to shift how they were around each other. He’d done the reverse with girlfriends plenty of times: been attracted first and become good friends later, but he’d never gone the opposite way--friends to lovers… 

And even though Sherlock seemed genuinely happy with how things had progressed, John hadn’t really seen any sign that it was a struggle _for Sherlock_ to wait a few days. In the back of his mind, John worried that Sherlock was not interested in that aspect of their new found relationship and that he considered it as some kind of necessity in order for them to be together.

In fact, it was one of the reasons John was anxious to see Sherlock again. To explore this new tension, to gauge whether the attraction affected him as well. If he was as anxious as John.

He walked into the kitchen in order to make himself a hot cocoa when he noticed that Sherlock had left two manila envelopes for him on the kitchen table plus a pair of mismatched socks with a note affixed to them that read, “ _Look at what you made me do._ ” John had no idea what he meant by that. Warily, he picked them up and tossed them back in Sherlock’s room. He took the time to run a warm cloth over that spot on the table. One couldn’t be too careful when it came to Sherlock. 

Then he picked up the first envelope and read the post-it note Sherlock had affixed to it.

 _As requested,_ it read.

John looked inside and found Sherlock’s STD test results—all negative. And much to his surprise, his was there as well. (How the hell had Sherlock even obtained those?) He shoved the papers back inside and immediately reached for the second envelope. Inside was a detailed print out of the latest weather map—with isobars and all—as issued by the Met office. Sherlock had even added a few arrows to indicate the air flow and the incoming high pressure system which was going to result in frigid temperatures tomorrow. 

_Socks on the table, STD results, and a weather map—it doesn’t get more romantic than this, does it?_

John shook his head and chuckled a bit in disbelief. Jesus, what else could he do? He was in a relationship with Sherlock. It’s not like he was going to receive poetry or anything like that, was he? And the weather forecast was sorta funny in its own right. He could even frame the darn thing and put it on the wall as a reminder--and no one would ever be aware of its significance. (Well, maybe Mycroft would figure it out, come to think of it).

Finally John moved away from the table to finally make his hot cocoa (he loved the smell and holding the overlarge cup on cold days). He smiled when he saw there was another post-it note affixed to the kettle (Sherlock knew his routine). This one read, _‘May I take you out to dinner? Angelo’s; meet me there at 19h00. Sherlock._

John looked at the note again. Technically this was going to be their first date (that he was aware of) and it felt a little odd. It was then that John decided to text Sherlock. They were friends first. Not everything had to change just because tomorrow he’d get to see Sherlock naked.

_Where are you?_

_Yard. Tying up loose ends for tomorrow morning. SH_

Geez, did Sherlock really need to still sign his initials at the end of his texts? It somehow made everything feel so impersonal. John decided to flirt a bit and remind Sherlock about the tomorrow _night_ instead.

_I got your notes. Looks like the weather forecast was accurate after all._

_Yes, we’ll surely catch him red handed. SH_

John didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. But this was Sherlock. And Sherlock was in the middle of a case. One of his first truly intriguing ones in a long time… of course his entire focus was there. He’d have Sherlock’s attention after the case was solved. It shouldn’t bother him. He knew exactly what he signed up for when he agreed to become involved with Sherlock Holmes. Still, he was pleased when he received another text from Sherlock immediately after. 

_I know that’s not what you were alluding to. See you shortly. SH_

John smiled, and settled in to drink his cocoa before setting out to meet Sherlock.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Sherlock had just finished explaining his deductions to Angelo when he saw John walking into the restaurant. Sherlock was filled with happiness just at the sight of John’s cold red cheeks, his attractive face, and his kind blue eyes. His burgundy scarf was wrapped around his neck a few times and the tip of his nose was red, and again, Sherlock was struck by how handsome John was.

John removed his gloves and smiled when his eyes found Sherlock in the corner booth. The effect was like a positive feedback loop, and Sherlock grinned at John in return. 

John seemed to notice he was staring at Sherlock openly, and quickly they both averted their eyes. 

John took off his coat, removed his scarf, and placed them on the vacant chair across from Sherlock. When he sat down, his face was composed.

“Hi, satisfactory visit at the Yard?” John said as he picked up the menu.

“Yes, we’re set for tomorrow morning. You’ll be accompanying us?”

“Yes. I’m not scheduled to work at the surgery.”

“I know.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock picked up his menu, though the last thing he felt like doing was eating. Why were they making small talk? Why did John keep looking elsewhere? Why did people date if all of a sudden they became awkward around each other? 

Finally, Dante, the new waiter (Angelo’s nephew, first job, probably dyslexic) came over to their table to take their orders. John, as predicted, chose the soup and lasagne combo (John likes hot liquids when it’s cold) and for his part, Sherlock chose salad and veal (so as not to be encumbered by the sluggish break down of the high carbohydrate options.)

“Here, let me get this out of your way,” Dante said as he blew out the candle and removed it from their table. “We usually have couples sit at this table.” 

 

John’s head snapped up, and he looked at Sherlock, eyes wide in surprise. 

“Actually, I am his date—but I suppose we don’t need the candle.” 

Dante smiled hesitantly, unsure if John was joking or not, and walked away with the candle. He turned back and gave them a second puzzled look.

While they waited for their food, Sherlock observed John, filing away the details in order to take them out and explore later in the privacy of his room. (The blue eyes with longer than average eyelashes, the exact shape and thickness of his earlobe, the slight upturn of his nose, and the way he tilted his head just so whenever he looked at Sherlock.)

John too observed Sherlock and admired his face, the neat shape of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, and the curls teasing the edge of his ears. 

Suddenly Angelo himself was standing near their table with a swift reminder of tomorrow’s plans. “Cold enough for you? Well, it’s about to get colder! Have you heard?”

Sherlock kept his expression neutral and said, “Yes, we’re both quite aware of that fact. I think John was even looking at a weather map this afternoon.”

John almost spit out a spoonful of soup and glanced at Sherlock who was now smirking. _Prat!_

“Oh, don’t believe anything he says. He’s just happy the cold will help him catch a criminal.”

“Amongst other things,” Sherlock replied. 

Angelo shrugged. “Well, I hope those other things include hot chocolate and a warm blanket!”

John averted making eye contact with Sherlock. Then they both reached for a water glass in the center of the table and their hands landed on the same one in unison. They both quickly removed their hands from it as if the glass had liquefied into hot lava.

Sherlock knew how ridiculous they must look (that is, if people bothered to observe properly).

They ate the rest of their meal quietly as if the old easiness between them had been temporarily trumped by an awareness of things to come.

John hoped that Angelo would take it as an extreme compliment to his cooking that both he and Sherlock could be so engrossed in eating that they hardly spoke a word through an entire dinner.

Later, as John was returning from the loo, Angelo pulled him aside and said, “You two still good friends? You’ve forgiven Sherlock, right?” 

John nodded. “Yes, we’re fine.”

Angelo seemed to hesitate before saying, “My sister has a daughter—fine young lady, if you ask me—and she’s looking to meet someone. I told her I knew a handsome doctor who might be single… er, I know at one point, I thought you and Sherlock…” Angelo paused before he continued, “but anyway, it was obvious tonight that it was okay to ask if you might be interested in meeting her. If you’re still unattached.”

 

John half laughed. Why was it that once they’d finally decided to be together, the staff at Angelo’s didn’t seem to think they were a couple anymore?

“That’s very kind of you, Angelo. But I am seeing someone right now. Actually, we just finished our first date.”

John watched as understanding travelled over Angelo’s features. Angelo clapped John on the shoulders and chuckled. “You two looked more like a couple when you weren’t dating!”

“Yes, apparently.”

He said goodbye and headed outside to meet Sherlock who was waiting for him in the cab.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Back in 221B, Sherlock seemed preoccupied with something. He kept checking his phone and typing at lightning speed on John’s own laptop. 

“Everything alright?”

“Hmm, yes. Just want to assure myself that everything is in order for tomorrow.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Not unless you can tell me what the acronym R.A.T. stands for and how to activate one on a laptop.”

“It stands for Real Annoying Tosser—and he’s already active on my laptop.”

Sherlock looked up and grinned widely. “Witty,” he praised, “but totally wrong, of course. R.A.T stands for ‘Retro Access Trojan’. It’s a funny little program used to illegally hijack the camera on a computer to secretly record private activities. Used mainly in order to blackmail.”

“Oh, you’re just trying to seduce me with that computer talk, aren’t you?”

“Sorry John. I—I just need to—” 

“No, it’s alright, Sherlock. Keep working. It’s important that we catch this sick bastard tomorrow…”

Sherlock seemed relieved. He had his eyes glued on the screen when he said, “Good, thanks.” Then he looked up, eyes piercing. “Good night, John.”

Upstairs, in his room, John tried not to be too disappointed. 

Well, perhaps disappointed wasn’t quite the right word. Of course it was important for Sherlock to make sure that he had all the pieces of the puzzle properly lined up in order to catch the sick psycho who was terrorizing people in London…. 

It’s just it would’ve been nice to get additional confirmation that this whole attraction thing wasn’t all one sided. Despite the delicious tension between them this morning, the doubts were creeping back in, and John wondered once again if Sherlock was at all interested in the physical aspect of their… well, whatever they were now.

John had hoped—after that weird meal at Angelo’s—that they’d at least sit on the sofa together and perhaps they could’ve just talked or something. The last few days had been so weird and he missed their intimate camaraderie. 

He reached for his book—might as well distract himself—and was surprisingly engrossed before he knew it. 

About an hour later his phone rang on his bedside table. The caller id indicated that it was Sherlock.

He answered quickly, in a panic of sorts. “What is it?” he practically yelled.

“Calm down, John, you’re making my bedroom ceiling shake,” said Sherlock.

“You’re in the flat? What the hell are you doing calling me, then?”

“Why are you so upset?” inquired Sherlock, sounding puzzled.

“You never call. You always text me. I thought something was wrong.”

“We’ve talked on the phone before,” argued Sherlock.

“Yes, and the last time we did, you jumped off a fucking building.” 

There was a long pause, and finally Sherlock said quietly, “I see.”

John ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and laid back down on his bed. He was still clutching his phone tightly. “Why are you calling me, Sherlock?” 

John thought Sherlock was going to hang up, but finally, he spoke.

“I was done with the work…” There was another long pause before Sherlock whispered in one breath, “and I wanted to take you through what I’d discovered, but you told me you needed to stay away. I thought of texting, but I really wanted to hear your voice, so this seemed the most logical solution.”

“Oh.”

There was another long prolonged silence. 

“Well, go ahead, what did you find out?”

“It doesn’t seem important now.” John caught the hint of sadness in his voice.

“No, I want to hear it. Especially if it helps us catch our guy tomorrow.”

“It won’t help me--you’re atrocious when it comes to technology. I just mostly wanted to hear your voice. I didn’t mean to upset you… as I said, I just wanted to talk.”

“I know Sherlock. I overreacted. But I’m glad you called. I was thinking it was weird how we haven’t been able to just chat these last few days.”

“Yes—and what a tedious meal at Angelo’s,” said Sherlock. John could tell he was now smiling.

“I agree—that was horrible!” chuckled John. It felt good to say it.

“You were so awkward. You didn’t know where to look or what to say. No wonder your dates always end in disaster.”

“Very funny. You were no better—acting all serious and quiet. Jesus, you even ate an entire meal to avoid talking to me,” laughed John.

“Well, you almost spit your soup when I mentioned the weather map.” 

“I just didn’t expect _you_ to bring it up.”

“You were so tense… I was just trying to lighten the mood,” said Sherlock. 

“I was tense? Did you see how fast you moved your hand when it accidently touched mine? Christ, I thought that glass had electrocuted you!”

“Your hand flew off just as quickly as mine,” replied Sherlock. His voice was filled with quiet humour.

A silence fell and John pictured Sherlock sitting on his bed with bright, laughing eyes. 

“It’s a little odd we’re talking on the phone, since we are actually both in flat at the moment,” John paused. “But, I’m really glad you called.”

“Hmm, I think your phone is will die soon, though.”

“Do you want me to come downstairs?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll get dressed.”

“What? You’re naked?”

“Problem?”

“It might be if I come downstairs,” said John gruffly and he felt his face heat up at the intensity of his words.

“Oh.”

“Er, let’s just chat on the phone.”

“All right. Which book were you reading?”

“ _A Place of Hiding,”_ John simply answered, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew he was reading and not sleeping when he called. “It’s a thriller my sister gave me a while back. Just getting around to reading it now.”

“What is it about?” Sherlock asked. John could tell he was eager to tear it apart.

They discussed the unfeasibility of the plot and after a while a new silence fell over them again.

John thought about good it felt just to talk with Sherlock and how much he didn’t want this phone conversation to end (even though his phone battery was getting quite low.)

He gathered up his courage and asked Sherlock, “Have you been thinking about tomorrow night at all?”

“Yes. A lot,” replied Sherlock. John pulled his blanket tighter around himself while Sherlock’s words drove his heart into a backbeat. 

“Me too.”

“Obviously.”

John chuckled.

“Well, not obvious to the new waiter at least.”

“That’s because you weren’t gawking at me in admiration as per usual.”

John smirked. “At least we don’t need to work on your self-esteem.”

“You’re implying that something else needs work?”

“Well, maybe your flirting skills could be improved.”

“My skills are fine. Molly always knows when I’m flirting with her.”

“You fake flirting is better than your real flirting.” 

Sherlock humphed into the phone.

“That’s because you’re too dense to pick up the nuances. You didn’t even comment on the socks.”

“Perfect example. You left socks on the kitchen _table_. You call that flirting?

John could almost feel Sherlock’s sigh through the phone.

“Did you notice what colour the socks were?”

“One black and one navy. Actually… that’s not like you.”

“Exactly. And it was your fault.”

John smiled and rolled over on his belly. “How is that even my fault?” 

“You _distracted_ me while I was indexing my socks earlier this morning.”

“Oh.” John swallowed and asked, “How was I distracting you exactly?”

There was a breathy silence at the other end, and John thought that Sherlock wasn’t bad at all at the flirting thing after all. 

“I was thinking about you this morning at breakfast… when you said that you would need to stay away from me.”

John buried his face in his pillow, grinning. “And you liked that, did you?”

“Yes. I liked the way your voice sounded and the fact that you blushed.”

“How much did you like it?” Jesus, he couldn’t believe he was flirting with Sherlock over the phone like a goddamn teenager. 

“How much? Is there a scale of measurement for such things?”

“No, no. I meant—”

“John—I was just joking.” 

“Wanker.”

“Appropriate. I touched myself thinking about you.”

Suddenly, John felt like he had a colony of bees fluttering around in his lower gut. Oh God! The image of Sherlock jerking himself off… to him. _Jesus Christ._

It took a while before he could arrange some words in his head and deliver them to Sherlock. “That’s, hmm, very evocative.” 

“Evocative, really, John?”

John chuckled. Seriously, where the hell was this vocabulary coming from? “Well, this is very new—I, er—I didn’t think you…”

“I do.”

“Good, that’s good.” Now, all John wanted to do was to grab Sherlock, and… 

_Beep!_

Shit, his goddamn phone was dying!

“We have ninety seconds, unless you want to come and get your cable downstairs…” said Sherlock, amused.

John hesitated. Christ. If he went downstairs now—

_Beep!_

“Or am I too _evocative_ for you?” teased the new master of flirtation. 

“You’re a prat. I can still change my mind about tomorrow, you know. Angelo said he had a nice girl he wanted me to meet.”

“Hmm, that’s why he pulled you over after dinner!” said Sherlock. “I had deduced that he wanted to ask you if you’d forgiven me.” (Well, so much for making Sherlock jealous…)

_Beep!_

“Well, that too. Okay, my phone is about to die.”

“Are you coming down?” said Sherlock quickly. 

“No I can wait until tomorrow,” he replied just as fast.

“It’s for the best.”

“Yes, we don’t want to mess up the calendar.” John had time to slide that in at the last moment before his phone died. 

Then he heard Sherlock’s deep laugh from downstairs and was filled with a mixture of deep affection and euphoria. Perhaps evocative wasn’t a bad word to use after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Thank you so much for reading. Your comments are much appreciated.


	12. The Coldest Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, thanks to ever-amazing Lariope for the midnight beta and phone call. You have my endless gratitude for sticking with me for the entirety of this story! Thanks for your help, insights, and all the giggles... I couldn't have done it without you. *hugs*

The Blue Glove culprit was caught red-handed just as Sherlock had predicted. Truth be told, Sherlock was almost disappointed that the criminal’s plan hadn’t been more layered, or elegant. It had been too easy. _Idiot._

He proceeded to lay out the evidence in record time (it was, indeed, very cold outside) and even Anderson gaped in awe at him. (Did he think they were just out catching a car thief?) Donavan shook her head in wonder and said “great stuff, freak”. Lestrade beamed and congratulated him proudly (he’d worked hard to have him reinstated, and was glad that Sherlock was proving to be worth the trouble—of course he was.). 

The only one who seemed not to be blown away was John Watson, who was making a concerted effort at avoiding eye contact. He was standing further away from Sherlock, seemingly more concerned with keeping his fingertips warm than acknowledging Sherlock’s brilliance.

And, unusually enough, everyone noticed that something was out of the ordinary.

It was something they projected together, Sherlock concluded, and now that they were aware of its existence and negated the connection, people assumed a disparity between them.

Sherlock, however, _was_ attuned to John’s every motion, sound, and even internal thoughts. And when Sherlock added further extrapolations—and everyone praised him again, fair reward—he sensed John’s accolades despite his apparent lack of interest (from the quick tilt of his head at the sound of his voice, the alertness of his gaze, the determination in his stance, and the quick flash of pride in his eyes at Donovan’s words. )

In fact, Sherlock need not even look John’s way to sense the connection between them still existed.

Lestrade pulled him aside, and Donovan took the opportunity to talk to John--and from the direction her feet pointed in, possibly to ask him out?

“Hey, is everything alright with you two?” inquired Lestrade.

“We’re fine.”

Lestrade gave him a doubtful look and then said, “Well, I’m going to need you to stay a few minutes to do the paperwork despite the cold. No more running off after solving a case! Gotta do things by the book now.”

“Apparently. Just don’t ask ridiculous questions to slow down the debriefing process.”

 

~~~***~~~

 

John too was hyper-aware of Sherlock’s every move—from the way he inhaled just before stringing his deductions together to the way he suppressed a comment with a tight press of the lips, and even at how disappointed he was at the culprit for not making it challenging enough) but nonetheless, he tried to keep his eyes low in order to avoid making eye contact. 

And even though he kept his mouth shut the entire time, he was still immensely proud and impressed with Sherlock’s brilliant mind.

Even Sally Donovan had been floored, and he was surprised when she came to talk to him while Sherlock was giving his official statement to Lestrade. He hoped she wasn’t coming over to list a bunch of hobbies he could take up—save the polar bears, or otters or whatever animal was in vogue these days. 

“Hi, John. Impressive stuff from your flatmate.”

“Yes.”

“I imagine it must be hard to forgive his deceit, though.”

“Well… ” John didn’t really want to engage her in a conversation so let his voice trail off. “Bloody cold out!” he said rubbing his numb fingers together.

“Would you like to grab a coffee?” she asked.

“No, thanks, I think I’ll just go home to warm up instead.”

John grinned internally—someone else assuming they were not together--and his eyes flickered to Sherlock briefly.

But Sherlock was still talking to Lestrade. He supposed they wouldn’t be allowed to cut corners anymore and have their statements recorded later. It was bloody cold, and he didn’t want to stand around waiting. It felt like every time he breathed in, the inside of his nostrils would flash freeze. 

And since Sherlock and Lestrade didn’t seem to be close to wrapping things up, he dialed a taxi for himself and got in quickly as soon as it arrived (not too many people out on this frigid morning, he supposed).

Seconds later he received a text from Sherlock. With numb fingers, he entered his passcode. 

_You purposely left me stranded at the investigation site? SH_  
 _Taste of your own medicine…._ He replied.

 

~~~***~~~

 

 _Was there a special time of day when sex was deemed to be more satisfactory?_ wondered Sherlock. John certainly seemed to think so. “But it’s only 10 am,” John had replied when he’d asked John if he was ready to proceed with intercourse as soon as he’d returned back to the flat, half-frozen (contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t in fact, cold-blooded). It would’ve been an efficient way to increase body temperature. 

But John seemed preoccupied with food and making a fire. You’d think after three days of anticipation, John would be happy to accelerate the proceedings. 

So, instead, Sherlock headed to the shower to thaw his feet. As he undressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and observed himself as John would see him later on (past 10 am, apparently). He knew from previous observation that people (of both male and female gender) found him attractive somehow.

Irene Adler seemed to think the cheekbones had something to do with it (and John had mentioned them too in Baskerville). He supposed, evolutionary speaking, males with prominent zygomatic bones had stronger mandibles. A stronger jaw helped in hunting and providing food and therefore was considered a desirable trait in a mate. 

Sherlock didn’t even like to get milk from the store, so he wasn’t exactly what you would call an ideal provider. This line of thought was utterly useless.

He looked at himself again this time looking at his back side. His skin was pale, his shoulders dusted with light freckles, and he had a few dark moles scattered across his back. The rest--legs, buttock, thighs, feet--were just like any other bipedal male.

His appearance mattered not, he decided, since physically speaking, John preferred women (wider hips, higher percentage of fat on muscles) and there was nothing he could do about that.

John loved him for his mind, and for the rewarding burst of adrenaline he provided. 

But it wasn’t likely Sherlock that was going to amaze him during coitus. He didn’t have the necessary experience to make the gender transition feel seamless to John. 

And it’s not as if he had a sweet, winning personality either (at least he wouldn’t be expected to make small talk or worry about social niceties, he supposed.)

Suddenly, after spending five weeks orchestrating this event, it dawned on Sherlock that for the life of him, he didn’t know why John Watson would ever want to even sleep with him. A strange tightness fisted itself around his heart at the thought.

He’d made a mistake. He should’ve capitalized on the moments of attractions that had occurred between them during the past three days. Yes—he should’ve let John touch him that morning after he’d swamped him with an outstanding array of creative leaps. 

Now he couldn’t think of any epiphanies to share, and from the way his stomach clenched, he was probably nervous. They should’ve done it much sooner—at least before he got cold feet (literally and figuratively).

 

~~~***~~~

 

Of course, there was nothing wrong with 10 AM sex, John wanted to tell Sherlock. (Christ, he’d have any AM sex with Sherlock—didn’t matter what digit came before it…) but that was the only thing he’d thought of saying when Sherlock had returned to 221B all red-nosed, short tempered, and abrasive with his demand that they proceed with the scheduled events of the day.

John knew Sherlock well, knew that his foul mood wasn’t a result of John leaving Sherlock stranded at the investigation scene. Sherlock was just probably nervous. It was normal to have a few butterflies when sleeping with a new partner for the first time (or, more than likely, slept with someone for the first time period).

A direct approach was fine with John. He didn’t need the flat to be filled with candles and the path to Sherlock’s room to be strewn with rose petals—or something ridiculous like that.

It was just—it was just that John was nervous too.

Honestly, after the fun three days of sexual tension and the flirty phone call the previous night, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to get… well, hmm… to get all ‘Sherlock-y’ about it. 

And now it seemed it was going to be up to John to fix things. It didn’t seem fair that once again he’d have to play therapist and referee in his own love life. 

John thought about the brilliant yet awkward man who was waiting for him downstairs. Sherlock had built concrete walls around himself, and more often than not, that’s exactly where he preferred to hide his humanity. 

Really, John should’ve simply said, “Hey Sherlock, it’s just me…” when Sherlock had returned home all prickly and unsure. They just needed to be themselves around each other.

John looked at himself in his mirror and sighed. _Yeah, Watson, it’s just you._

And as John made his way down the stairs, in his plain grey pyjamas and jumper, he wondered if that would be enough for someone like Sherlock Holmes, someone who was probably good looking enough to be on the cover of fashion magazines and smart enough to be on the cover of the science ones.

Downstairs, John hesitated at Sherlock’s door, wondering why the hell he’d agreed to do it this way. They hadn’t even kissed yet—hell, they hadn’t even touched. It was too much pressure, they’d let the expectations built up---

“John, I know you’re at the door.”

Well, so much for second thoughts. John sighed, turned the handle, and went in.

He found Sherlock lying in bed with a large navy blanket he’d never seen before tucked underneath his armpits tightly.

_He’s so good looking. Does he even know that?_

John swallowed. “Hi,” he said simply.

“I don’t think greetings are necessary, are they?” Sherlock asked. It sounded like a real question.

 

John felt like he was on a roller coaster ride—one part of him wanting very much to be with Sherlock, whereas the other part wanted to suggest they go watch TV instead. 

John shivered and looked at Sherlock’s window to see if it was closed properly. A lattice of crystals had condensed on the inside, but it seemed to be otherwise fine. He closed the curtain and turned back towards the bed.

“Jesus, it’s cold in here!” he said finally. He half expected to see his breath condense in the room.

“Well, get in, then,” said Sherlock, patting the empty side of the bed with his hand.

John pulled up the thick navy blanket and crawled in next to Sherlock. Nothing else happened for what felt like a damn long time to John. 

They just lay there, flat on their backs, as if memorizing the details of the ceiling. They’d been this close before, lying side by side for the purpose of a stakeout or whatnot—but of course, this was different. 

From the corner of his eye, John glanced at Sherlock’s chest, pointy elbows, and the long line of his neck as he lay there with his hands under his head as if he were in deducing mode. His expression was neutral—how could it be neutral?—and John wished Sherlock would at least turn his head and make eye contact. Had he changed his mind?

The minutes dragged on. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Both wondered.

_Sherlock, make a move so I know it’s not all one-sided._  


_Do something… You’re the experienced one._   


_I really thought we’d jump each other._   


_What exactly are you waiting for, John? An engraved invitation?_   


_This is way easier with women—they’re much easier to read._

Finally, it was Sherlock who broke the silence. “It doesn’t usually take you this long to initiate things when you’re with a girlfriend,” sighed Sherlock. “Average: twenty-four seconds, less if you’ve been drinking.”

John rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to his side, popped up on an elbow.

“Don’t think I can’t tell when you’re making up stats, Sherlock,” said John looking at the distinct profile of a very still (and very handsome) Sherlock. I’m the one who’s made all the ‘initiating’ so far, by the way. _I_ walked into this room. _I_ got into your bed. And you haven’t even batted an eyelash yet.”

“I’ve blinked three times,” said Sherlock. “And it still doesn’t change the fact that it takes you less time to get on with things usually. Why less time with them?”

_Because we’re approaching this all wrong?_

But saying this wouldn’t help Sherlock relax…

“Well, maybe because they aren’t clever masterminds who solve crimes and occasionally text me to come and tie their shoelace.” 

At that, Sherlock grinned and let out a small laugh. “I’m not _that_ unreasonable, John.”

“Yes, you are. Trust me.”

John’s heart knocked in his chest and his breath caught in his lungs when Sherlock finally stopped staring at the ceiling and turned on his side to face him. _You’re stunning…_

“Well, I’m not exactly asking you to tie my shoe right now,” said Sherlock a little breathlessly.

“What are you asking, then?” John swallowed. _Tell me you want this as badly as I do._

Sherlock sighed loudly and flopped back to his earlier position. “Oh, for God’s sake, you know what I’m asking. Will you just _touch_ me?”

_Stunningly irritating..._

“You know, you’re making this extremely hard, you bloody annoying dick.”

And without thinking about it, John’s hand reached for Sherlock’s waist and tickled the sensitive area with his fingers. 

Sherlock bolted up like a Jack-in-the-box and yelped an outraged, _“John!”_

“You said to touch,” John reminded him innocently and leaned in to do it again, not only because Sherlock deserved it, but because it was bloody funny to hear him scream like a little girl. 

But before he had time to repeat the gesture, Sherlock grabbed his wrist in mid-air and hooked his long limbs around John at the same time. Must have been a Bartitsu move of some sort. Well, whatever it was, it was very effective and quick, and Sherlock managed to flip John over so that now he was lying face down on the bed while Sherlock had both his arms pinned behind his back. 

“Well, then, I get to investigate your lovely maggot exit wound closely,” Sherlock said, lifting himself up on his knees, all the while trying to pull John’s t-shirt up and holding him down in position. 

“Oh, no, you don’t!” John said. He’d wrestled and played rugby long enough to know how to get free. He was able to push himself up, free his arm, and then wrap them firmly around Sherlock’s knees to make him catapult face first into the mattress. _No better lever point than the knees, coach Spencer always said_. John then used the momentum to flip Sherlock over and roll on top of him.

He looked down at Sherlock below him, all disheveled and surprised, and John started giggling.

Why did he have to resort to tackling tactics to finally have sex with the love of his life? And had he just quoted his damn rugby coach to himself?

Well, it really shouldn’t surprise him. Sherlock was the most unorthodox human on the planet, so it followed that foreplay would be like nothing John had experienced before. 

“Nice move,” said Sherlock, trapped below him. There was an amused light in his eyes, and he was grinning broadly.

Then they were both laughing and laughing like only they could in the oddest situation. 

Then, as suddenly as it started, it ended. The room grew silent as they became aware of their rapid breaths, how their bodies were fitted together, and how good it felt to simply be themselves. 

He looked down at Sherlock. “Sherlock, it’s just me” John said softly. He should’ve said it earlier. 

“Just you… ” Sherlock repeated softly, his eyes conveying a different meaning to the words than what John had meant.

Something warm and comforting spread through John.

_John, he wants this. He’s yours._

John put both hands upon Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s eyes closed while John’s fingertips travelled over every part of it. They crossed Sherlock’s forehead down to his temples. Then he laid his fingers gently on Sherlock’s closed eyelids before tracing his nose and then his glorious lips. 

And finally, _finally,_ John kissed him on the lips. It was a simple, light feathery kiss but full of care. He left Sherlock’s lips trembling (but, Jesus, they might have been his own). Didn’t matter as long as they were kissing.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” revealed John breathlessly.

“Yes, I know.”

John smiled. Well, it wasn’t like he would ever be able to hide anything from Sherlock Holmes, he supposed.

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, and John bent to kiss his eyelids softly. Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly and made a connection with his own with a new sort of heated intensity –like he was communicating that all that mattered was John. It was a heady feeling–to be the one to hold Sherlock Holmes’ full attention, to be the focus of one of the brightest minds of their generation.

John cupped Sherlock’s face and kissed him again, more firmly this time.

It was hard to tell how long they kissed like that, with alternating nibbles and tongues and lips. It called to mind first kisses—the kind that had no end.

John had assumed that whenever he and Sherlock would cross the line, it would be quick and overwhelming like an avalanche. Instead, it was slow as treacle.

_And why shouldn’t it be?_ Mused John as he sampled a series of small nibbles on the edge of Sherlock’s ear down to his earlobe. _Good God!_ He had the most deliciously unique individual at his disposal and Christ if he wasn’t going to slow down and savour the feast. 

John moved from Sherlock’s ear back to his mouth, wanting to taste it again. Sherlock’s tongue met his, silky and slow, as if he too was enjoying the pace. Oddly enough, Sherlock tasted of fresh strawberries and John sucked on his tongue, vaguely wondering how that was possible. Strawberry toothpaste?

“Strawberry ice cream,” said Sherlock against his mouth. 

Go figure Sherlock would eat ice cream on the coldest day! It tasted good, though.

Then John moved his lips down Sherlock’s jaw, down his neck where he felt the faint brush of his stubble on his skin. He found that the texture didn’t bother him—not at all.

Curious, John then reached down and pulled Sherlock’s t-shirt off, careful not to touch his waist in the process. Their eyes made contact after John pulled the garment over Sherlock’s head. He ran his hand down Sherlock’s sculptured chest. There was barely any hair there, but it was broad and lean and strong. John had never touched a man before, and he was mesmerized by the difference (that was actually a similarity.) And even though Sherlock was relaxed, he could still feel the tautness of the muscles beneath his hands. He moved his hand up and down from shoulder to biceps and ran his tongue down the sleek swell, nibbling experimentally at the muscular flesh.

“Different?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, but I like it.”

“Yes, I can tell,” said Sherlock running a finger down John’s neck to where his pulse was beating erratically. 

Then Sherlock pulled him flush down on top of him, and John let his full weight settle on top of Sherlock like a sand bag. It felt so natural to lie with his body sprawled across Sherlock’s, his hands in his hair, breathing in his scent. _You crazy man, do I want to know why your hair smells like orange juice?_

Within him, heat flowed. _I want you so fucking much._

They were still pressed close and tight together, and John could feel Sherlock, hard and erect, against his belly.

“Sherlock, Sherlock… gorgeous creature…” he murmured against his lips, “let me see the rest of you.”

Sherlock nodded, and lifted his hips and pushed down his pyjama bottoms all the way down to the foot of the bed.

John leaned back and watched Sherlock openly.

“Enough ogling. Come back here, I’m cold,” said Sherlock, sounding like his usual bossy self, yet colouring pink all the way up from his neck to his cheeks at the same time. 

John grinned. “I think you’re blushing.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Your turn,” he added, pulling on the hem of John’s t-shirt.

John undressed quickly. In fact he didn’t know how he managed to do it so fast. He only knew that they were now bare skin against bare skin, John’s mouth trailing down Sherlock’s throat, and across his flat chest to his nipple.

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath and moaned almost against his will.

“Odd. I felt that in my groin,” Sherlock whispered. And John found he liked that Sherlock randomly shared these tidbits. It was like Sherlock was being himself, sharing any interesting data with John.

John slipped further down, nuzzling along unexplored planes, trailing kisses as he went, eventually burying his face between Sherlock’s thighs. He paused briefly and then licked the smooth, hairless skin inside his legs.

Sherlock squirmed and said, half-laughing, “Another hyperalgesia zone, apparently.”

John chuckled. “Duly noted,” he said and then kissed the spot firmly.

Then he paused and really looked at Sherlock’s erect cock—not that different from his own—and proceeded to lick up and down its length slowly.

“You--don’t,” Sherlock said, his breath catching, “have to do this” but it came out more like a moan.

“Doesn’t sound like you mean that. Now shhh,” 

It was stunning how sure John was, how much he wanted to, and how he knew exactly how.

He slipped Sherlock’s knees over his shoulders and held on to his hips, and then took Sherlock into his mouth.

John knew full well about the delicious friction he was creating along Sherlock’s cock by sliding and tightening his mouth around the length of him like that. John also knew that Sherlock’s balls would feel all static-y and full.

After a while, when he’d teased Sherlock enough with his mouth, he rubbed the pad of his thumb against the smooth perineum below his groin. Sherlock stretched out his legs fully, and John knew that he was close. Wanting to watch, he let Sherlock slip out of his mouth, all wet and glistening.

John shifted so he could see Sherlock’s face and then fisted his hand around Sherlock’s wet cock, and it didn’t take long for the stronger, firmer rhythm of his fist to make Sherlock gasp, “Fuckk... “ and shudder gloriously in his hand. Then Sherlock pushed John’s hand away and fell back, heavy and slack against his pillow.

After a moment, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John with the most dazed expression.

“ _John,_ ” he said, his deep voice filled with wonder, as if after all this time the name was suddenly different to him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John smiled as if he’d just met him too. 

And in a way, it was like an introduction of sorts—a new facet of their unique bond--friends to lovers…

Sherlock turned on his side and found John’s t-shirt and cleaned himself with it. He shivered slightly as the cool air met the wet spot on his skin causing a trail of goosebumps to appear on his arms and chest.

“Come here,” said John. 

Sherlock reached for the heavy blanket and pulled it over both their heads and then moved close to John, so they were facing each other in their make-do fort. It was still light outside, and John was able to see Sherlock’s face despite the soft mountain of bedding keeping them warm.

“Better?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. He shuffled closer to John and placed his head on his shoulder.

John kissed Sherlock on the temple and that’s all it took for Sherlock to wrap himself around John until their arms and legs intertwined tightly.

John’s turn arrived not too long after that. They were still lying entangled in the centre of the bed, kissing and nuzzling under the blanket, when Sherlock placed his hand firmly on John’s erect cock. John took a long breath in, appreciating the wide width of Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock then reached over John’s side and took John’s right hand and guided it over his.

Their eyes connected in silent communication in the shadows of the heavy blanket.

 _Show me how you like it._  
 _Trust me, you don’t need me…_  
 _Please?_  
…  
 _Alright—together, then._

John tightened his hold on Sherlock, and interlaced their fingers over his cock. 

Then, hand over hand, they moved slowly up and down the length of his shaft, their movements synchronized to the rhythm of John’s breathing.

Not only did it feel amazing, but the image they presented—two large hands easily gliding on his cock in unison--was beyond erotic. In no time, John found his heart beating out of his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes and simply let the friction build up in his groin and ripple down his shaft, until he tensed, pressure beating against his eardrums, and climaxed.

When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock’s head was snuggly lodged in his neck, his curls tickling John’s nose, as Sherlock chuckled quietly against his collarbone.

“Having fun?”

Sherlock pulled the blanket off their heads.

“A bit, yes,” he replied. There was a suspicious light in his eyes.

John reached across and dragged the extra pillow from behind Sherlock and placed it behind his head instead. “Do I even want to know?”

John roused slightly as Sherlock wriggled down into a comfortable curl at his side. “Later,” he replied as he placed a quick kiss on John’s mouth.

John closed his eyes, exhausted and relaxed, and thought, _Just Sherlock_ as he drifted off to sleep. 

 

~~~***~~~

 

It was five-fifteen and Sherlock was anxious for John to wake up and join him (and not just because he needed John to start the fire again, but also because he missed him already). He purposely dropped a pan on the floor to disrupt John’s sleep before going back to his work station at the table. 

He looked at the prepared slide under the microscope and marvelled again at the morphology and motility of John’s spermatozoa in his field of view. He wished he’d thought of measuring its pH value before preparing the sample for observation.

A few moments later, John was by his side as predicted. “What are you working on?” he said, running a hand through his hair and yawning. 

“This is not really work,” he replied. “Here, take a look.” John should definitely see this. 

Sherlock stood and let John sit in his chair to give him access to the microscope. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Is that mine?” he sounded awake now.

“Obviously.” John was being an idiot, who else could it belong to?

“Why in the bloody hell would you even want to look at my spunk?”

John always looked adorable when he was outraged and secretly amused at the same time.

“No—don’t answer that,” John said laughing a bit. “Well, at least now I know I don’t have any fertility problems. Look at that, I could be a dad many times over.” He stood and laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re crazy, you know.”

Sherlock felt an odd pinch in his stomach and realized that something John had said had caused that particular reaction. Not the part where John said he was crazy—he was used to that one—but the other part, the ‘dad’ part.

Had John thought of becoming a father? Had it been one of his goals? Had he given that up to be with him?

All living organisms, including plants, fungi, and bacteria, had the same purpose; to survive and to reproduce, so basically being with Sherlock went against nature’s evolutionary goals.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John called from their living room. “Can you help me move the sofa in front of the fireplace? It’d be fun to watch something together on the telly and keep warm at the same time.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. He couldn’t refuse that to John after taking his evolutionary destiny away from him as well.

John sat as soon as the sofa was in place and patted the spot next to him. “Join me?”

Promptly, Sherlock sat next to John. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John inquired.

Best be direct. “You would make an excellent father, John.”

“Er—thanks? I hope this has nothing to do with this afternoon’s sex,” he joked.

“John, has it occurred to you that you might be giving up too much in order to be with me? I’m not an ideal mate—I put your survival at risk, I don’t provide food, I don’t build fires and I’m not family oriented.”

John looked puzzled. “I have no idea what you’re on about. Are you trying to tell me you don’t want us to be together already?” he said, joking again, but Sherlock thought he looked genuinely concerned.

Lord God, John was hopeless at deducing. Sherlock wanted to be with John always…

“No, I’m trying to tell you that I might not be enough for you,” Sherlock clarified.

John frowned and then took his hand and brought it to his belly area. “You’re more than enough for me,” he said, “in fact, you’re just the perfect portion—you’re all I need.”

“But John—”

“Listen carefully to me, Sherlock. I’m over forty years old. If I wanted to be married with kids, I would’ve done so by now, okay. I prefer life with you. I bloody love you! I thought we’d gone over that already… surely you don’t want to talk about it again?”

Sherlock exhaled. He supposed _he_ was the imbecile, not John. He’d been collecting evidence for a long time and was true that John preferred life with him. 

He sighed loudly (which made John laugh) and snuggled close to John’s chest. “For a long time you dated women—even as recent as six weeks ago. But on the day you met my mother, it changed. What was it that she said to cause the shift?”

“Ha. Wrong deduction—again. Your mum didn’t make me see you romantically, it was the rough draft of your thesis dedication.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?” There was nothing sentimental in his dedication, was there?

“It reminded me of your sacrifice… when you jumped off a building to save me. It—er—it reminded me that you care about me as much as I care about you.”

It seemed John had romanticized what had happened at St-Bart’s.

“It wasn’t a _sacrifice_ , John. I gathered all the data, solved an intricate puzzle, and won.”

John grinned a secret smile. “Do you know even know why I forgave you?”

“Well, I systematically presented you with all the facts, and you—”

“As a matter of fact, it had nothing to do with facts.” John said, seemingly pleased with his feeble play on words. “Do you remember when you told me you were ‘married to your work’?” he added.

“Yes. I tend to remember things verbatim when I don’t delete them.”

John rolled his eyes. “Well, when you returned to London, you chose to be bored and go without the work. You chose to be with me rather than travelling all over the world, solving crime, and keeping that great big brain of yours stimulated. That’s why I forgave you.”

Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder. The truth remained, he’d just followed his method—collected the data, and solved all of Moriarty’s clues. _Brilliantly._  
But John’s line of reasoning was partly right as well. He’d hated ruining his reputation, and he’d done it for John, and he would do it again if necessary. 

“So, we’re okay?” asked John.

“Depends,” Sherlock said, nuzzling John’s neck. 

“On what?” asked John.

Hmm, how badly did John want things to be okay? Just how many things could he get away with?

_Depends on whether I can lie down on your back and examine your scar properly._  
 _Depends on whether you let me calculate the surface area of your epidermis._  
 _Depends on whether we can have sex again soon (Oh, and test the pH level of a new sample)._

But John was smiling Sherlock’s favourite smile, and he read the look in John’s eyes that said, _I know you, I love you._

“John,” he said in some strange, emotion-pitched voice, “it depends on absolutely nothing. We’re fine—er—better than fine.”

“That’s good,” John said, as he pushed him down on the sofa firmly. 

It seemed no other talking was necessary after that. 

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! Thank you so much for reading and commenting despite the long gaps between updates. I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> See you again with more theories after S3! ;D


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